


Eyes like Open Doors

by divinesick (solipsistful)



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: AU where the Distortion never became Helen, Abuse, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, And Michael doesn't know how to not be awful, Blind Character, But not an altogether constantly awful one either?, Codependency, Jon is just trying to make the best of a bad situation, M/M, Not a happy relationship here folks!, Possessive Behavior, Post-Episode 155, Spiral!Jon, chapter-specific CWs in notes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-13
Updated: 2021-02-06
Packaged: 2021-03-02 05:20:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 34,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23639734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/solipsistful/pseuds/divinesick
Summary: Jon knows he can't remain with the Institute.Michael welcomes him to the Spiral with open arms.
Relationships: Michael/Jonathan Sims
Comments: 155
Kudos: 489





	1. Conversion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Canon-typical eye-gouging

Ambulance sirens pierced through Jon’s skull even though they were on the opposite side of the building. Melanie had become, appropriately, a blind-spot, but that didn’t mean some awful part of him wasn’t following the shock and confusion of the paramedics who arrived to find someone who had inexplicably carved her own eyes out. It wasn’t until the ambulance was several blocks away that he managed to pull himself back to his own office, staring down at a sheet of paper describing impossible horrors.

 _Somebody_ had made it out, at least.

It left Jon with fewer excuses. If he truly, _truly_ believed that things were about to go downhill—that there were plans underway for him, for Martin, and that, all things considered, these plans might involve the complete destruction of the world as they currently knew it—and if he believed those plans relied on him in some capacity, then it shouldn’t have mattered that he couldn’t cajole Martin into fleeing with him.

Escape now, then return to save Martin once Jon stopped feeling the Eye combing through his every thought.

Escape now, or risk unwittingly participating in a plot to bring about an apocalypse that would make the idea of “escape” laughable.

_Escape, escape, escape._

Easier said than done, of course. Memories of trying to hack off his own finger replayed in his mind—how strands of muscle had reached out across the gap and stitched together the instant there wasn’t a blade severing them; the awful way nerves cried out, lost contact with the rest of him, then returned screaming. He had no reason to suspect the same wouldn’t happen to his eyes—they would close up, refill with liquid; eyelids would regrow from whatever tatters he tore them into. The thoughts twisted his stomach and throat with visceral repulsion.

Jared, however, was long gone. He’d need someone else.

#

Michael had taken up residence in the tunnels under the Institute for reasons that were, of course, never quite clear. The best that anyone had gotten out of it was a grinning, “I said I wanted to be _friends_ , remember? You do seem so in need of them lately.” It had helped with fending off dangers that the Institute had faced while Jon was in a coma—a good enough show of loyalty to the others who had never witnessed-experienced the Distortion’s horrors for themselves. It had also, apparently, taken to picking off Institute workers, judging by the sudden increase in mysterious disappearances, but that was a topic Jon hadn’t heard broached.

He couldn’t let himself think about it too much. He didn’t want to lose his nerve. It was an evil, horrible place—of course Jon would have to turn towards an evil, horrible thing to escape.

His knocks against the pale yellow door rang out with impossible echoes like so many indictments. Even as the sounds bounced through the tunnels into a resounding silence, no response came. Jon hadn’t expected _no response_ , and it took nearly a full minute before he realised he should try again. But, just as Jon raised his fist, the door began to crack open.

It was less of a relief than he would have liked to see Michael leaning its shoulder against the door frame. It stared perfectly blankly for a few moments before it seemed to remember to emote and its lips twitched into a thin, sharp smile. “Ah, Archivist. To what do I owe the honour?”

“I know how to escape the Eye.”

Michael didn’t move more than a slight raising of the eyebrows.

"Eyes," said Jon as he began to feel oddly breathless. "You get rid of your eyes."

There were a few seconds of pause, as if Michael was expecting him to say more. "Yes,” it said, bored. “That is how.”

A flash of anger shot through Jon. _It had known_. It had known all along, and yet it took a chance tape recorder for Jon to learn about this tantalising exit from this insane world. Then again, he told himself, he had never asked—and he couldn't afford to get too angry at it, not yet.

"I need you to help me."

Michael hummed. “Funny, I recall you saying you would never want my help and that you only wanted me to leave these tunnels—which, I might remind you, do not belong to the Eye any more than—”

“I need you to take out my eyes.”

There. Michael no longer looked quite so disinterested. It pushed itself upright, and Jon felt every centimetre of the thing now looming over him.

“And what,” it asked, words heavy with a sudden darkness, “brings the Archivist to want to abandon his post?”

“Elias is planning something,” he said, trying not to let too much anxiety enter his quickening speech. “I don’t know what—a ritual, the Watcher’s Crown, I think—and I must have some role in it. And I can’t just _let_ him do that, but since I don’t _know_ what he’s planning, that just leaves—me. Making sure I don’t help.” He winced at how _needy_ he sounded when he added, “That would work, right?”

“Foiling the Watcher’s plans,” Michael said slowly, tasting the words. “I will admit that is quite the appealing offer, considering what the actions of I-Know-You have done to _me_.”

“Right,” he said, “right. Exactly.” Memories of how calmly Michael had said it was going to kill him, how casually it had changed its mind and let him leave.

“Do you understand what you’re proposing, Archivist?”

Jon swallowed. He _thought_ he had, but the uncharacteristic intensity in those improbably blue eyes was making him reconsider.

“You would belong to me,” it explained.

“I—I would?”

“Unless you would like to die, that is.” It cocked its head to the side, studying him like a wolf studying the movements of its prey. “You are an avatar. Your body requires _some_ sort of sustenance. Sever your connection to the Great Horrors and, yes, you would die.”

“Oh.” Stupid, stupid. Of course it wouldn’t have been so straightforward—not that gouging out one’s eyes could ever be described as _easy_ , but it was at least a one-step solution. Go blind, and excuse himself from this horrific world where a new monster lurked behind every corner—where the laws of nature apparently meant nothing to the raw emotionality of terror. Still, he knew he didn’t want to _die_.

None of that changed the facts of the situation. The Beholding lingered overhead, waiting, watching; Peter continued to drag Martin away, whatever their roles in all this might be—and Jon was certain they did have _some_ role; and most damning of all, Elias had refused to let Jon visit the singular time he had reached out to his imprisoned boss. He was hiding something that would be very inconvenient for Jon to know.

So, what was—in a sense—sacrificing himself to the Spiral compared to potentially reigning in the end of the world?

“I need to think about it,” he said. “And to, er, prepare, I suppose.”

Michael let out a short huff of disappointment. “Alright. Make your preparations, then.” It turned, took a few steps, and the door began to close behind it, but before it had completely shut, it paused. “I would suggest you not take too long,” it added. “I believe your ‘Elias’s’ plans may be coming to fruition sooner than you think.”

Its laughter followed Jon all the way home.

#

How were you meant to dress for something like this? How were you meant to drink your morning tea and take the Tube to work knowing that, by lunchtime, you would be transformed into an avatar of the Spiral—whatever that might mean?

Maybe he should have left a resignation letter, like Melanie, or at least left an explanation for his assistants, but even stepping through the doors of the Institute felt like walking into enemy territory. He couldn’t waste a single moment and give the Eye—or more accurately, Elias in his cell—any opportunity to respond. He could explain things to them later, under the protection of the Spiral. And he forced himself to think of it as _protection_.

Every footstep felt too slow, too weighty and deliberate, right up until Jon was standing in front of Michael’s yellow door. This time, he only knocked a single time before it opened to Michael’s smiling face.

“Do you have an answer for me, Archivist?” it asked, bouncing on its toes.

The energy threw Jon. He must have had some script in mind—some practised thing about how many hours he had spent weighing his options, how he hadn’t slept at all the night before—but it now escaped him entirely. “Er,” he said. “Yes. My answer is yes.”

Wordlessly, Michael stepped aside and dramatically folded over itself, bowing Jon inside. He tried not to hold his breath, tried not to imagine the door as a mouth and Michael’s grin as a row of sharp teeth. Walking, he let Michael overtake him, not wanting to risk turning around to find himself completely alone and lost.

It wasn’t great to have it in his vision, admittedly. The further into the hallways they walked, the more Michael’s proportions shifted— _loosened_ , like every step in its gait didn’t return to quite the same position and its bones increasingly forgot where they should sit. Its fingers elongated and sharpened between blinks, which unnerved Jon more than if they had simply twisted and grown while he watched. Jon tried to follow at a distance, but found himself growing claustrophobic and worried Michael might choose to suddenly turn a corner and disappear.

They walked for—minutes? hours?—it was impossible to keep track and Jon knew better not to try. He would never know why they had stopped exactly there and then. It looked no different than any other part of these damned hallways, but he wasn’t sure what else he had been expecting. A central altar? A cathedral?

When Michael turned towards him, its expression was unexpectedly grim and serious. “On your knees,” it commanded.

Even this far in, Jon hesitated.

“ _On your_ _knees_ ,” it hissed, and there was an uncharacteristic edge of nervousness to its voice—if Jon felt right ascribing _nervousness_ to something like the Distortion. He hadn’t thought of this as time-sensitive, now that they were well within the hallways and the passage of time seemed to stop mattering as much, but maybe he should have. Who knew how much the Eye could see or how quickly it would respond to the loss of its Archivist?

As Jon sunk to his knees, Michael’s face split once more into a wide smile, which meant things were at least still going according to plan on its end.

Michael’s fingers wrapped around his head, and the world fell apart into static and colours and impossible shapes, and it was all he could do to grip its wrists and hold on while the ground pitched under him. He gasped, both with the surprise of how suddenly his senses had been pulled from him and the way the air now vibrated around and through him.

The easiest sensation to parse was Michael’s thumbs lying gently on the inner corners of Jon’s eyes. Hardly a touch, but already feeling like something sharp beginning to dig in, gravel or toothpicks.

And then the moment was over, leaving only the uncomfortable sharpness on his eyes and a panting breathlessness. His fingers still clung white-knuckled to Michael’s wrists.

Michael’s voice cut through the lingering disorientation, somehow the realest . “Hardly a taste,” it mused, “and yet you react so strongly. Oh, this _will_ be fun.”

Unwittingly, Jon began to think about cats idly batting around their prey before going in for the kill. That couldn’t be what the Spiral’s influence would _always_ feel like, could it? Of course, what difference would that make now? The choice had been made. He was already kneeling.

“Well, are you ready, Archivist?”

Jon gazed upwards, committing to memory what would be his last sight: Michael’s inhuman grin, which cut somehow wider and deadlier from this low angle; the dark ceiling above them (and he tried not to think with a pang of regret that he would never see the sky again—he hadn’t ever thought of himself as all that enamoured with the outdoors); a painting on a nearby wall that could almost look like a mirror if it hadn’t remained stationary when had Jon knelt down. One particularly wild lock of Michael’s hair stuck up above the rest and created an unnaturally perfect spiral above its forehead—such a dumb, inane thing to notice, but it was committed to memory all the same.

He swallowed hard and failed to keep his voice from shaking. “Yes. I’m ready.”

Michael laughed for a few long, echoing moments, ending in an _aww_ of exaggerated pity. “No,” it crooned. “You really aren’t.”

Claws plunged into Jon’s eyes, and he screamed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, co-conspirator [Leamas](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Leamas)! This is set to be a long one, but not _quite_ slow burn territory, don't worry.
> 
> Come on over to tumblr @spiralise!


	2. Waking Anew

Reality returned in confusing, impossible fragments. His arms felt like soft plastic. He thought he could hear the colour green. The room smelled as loud as a freight train.

No, the facts:

He was lying on his back.

He was on a bed.

It was his own bed.

He couldn’t see.

His head hurt.

His head _really_ hurt.

He let out a groan and tried to shift away from the pain, but movement proved that it wasn’t only his head that hurt. It was everything—a stabbing aching pulsing _everything_ that remained just on this side of bearable, barely something that didn’t make him want to scream.

Steps rang out from elsewhere in his flat—slow, light, but enough of an invasion that they cut through even his miserable groaning. His first reaction was panic. He was in no state to be fending off any invaders. He couldn’t even push himself upright before his arms gave out along the way, sending him back onto the pillow and making the world explode again in hurt. He must have yelped.

“Oh, you’re up! And I was _just_ about to leave.” Michael’s cheerily pleasant tone would not have been out of place if they had met by chance in some public place.

Jon groaned in a way that hopefully came across as, “What?”

“Wasn’t sure if this would be another of your comas or—don’t do that.”

Jon had brought up one of his hands to test the immense pressure around his head. There was a gauze bandage holding some sort of padding over his eyes—no, eye _sockets_. The memory brought a wave of nausea, and he was glad to already be lying down.

“Right,” he muttered, though his voice sounded like it was coming from somewhere far away, from someone else.

Similarly distant-sounding was Michael, moving about the room, and it was a task far beyond Jon’s current mental capabilities to predict where its voice would come from next. “You know, Archivist,” it said before its voice rang out from the complete opposite side of the room, “this does not look like the home of someone who knew they were about to lose their eyes. You still have _books_ everywhere.” Spoken with an air of faint disgust and accompanied by the sound of Michael flipping through some papers before suddenly it was right over him. “I haven’t so much as seen a _cane_. Did you not have enough time to prepare?”

Jon tried not to imagine this thing stalking through his flat, touching and prodding through whatever it wanted while he lay there unconscious. Tried not to imagine its face looming over him now, grinning with taunting derision.

“Why are you here?” he asked.

“Hm?” More sounds from across the room of flipping pages, then a few short clicks that Jon recognised as a lamp turning on and off.

It made Jon want to yell, but he instead focused that frustration into pushing himself upright. He anticipated the wave of pain and nausea this time, at least. “Don’t you have other things to do?”

“I am helping my newest avatar,” said Michael, “as he had asked me to.”

Jon had little to say other than, “Oh.” A few moments passed until he was confident enough that he wasn’t about to topple over. “Well—er—water would be nice.”

“Certainly!”

It again struck Jon how vulnerable he was. He tried to convince himself that he’d get used to keeping track of his surroundings without sight, but at the moment, all he could do was intensely, anxiously follow Michael’s quiet footsteps out the bedroom door. Then came the clinking of glass and a sink turning on. Yet, Michael managed to surprise Jon when, while he thought it must still be in the kitchen, it was suddenly in front of him saying, “Here you are.” A glass was placed carefully into his awkwardly reaching hand.

Water was a mistake, it turned out. It tasted like softness and red and the nausea hit hard. Fortunately, the cup was plucked away just in time for him to collapse back onto the pillow.

Once his stomach stopped trying to crawl up his throat, he mumbled, “What now?”

Michael made a questioning yet somewhat distracted noise. It had returned to rifling through papers or books, and Jon told himself that, well, it didn’t matter anymore what happened to those, did it?

“I’m your—I’m an avatar of the Spiral now, right?” His own voice sounded sceptical to him, like this ‘deal’ might be suddenly exposed as one of the Distortion’s bizarre jokes.

“Correct,” said Michael.

“So, what does that _mean_?”

“It means you ask far too many questions, Archivist!” Its giggles echoed through Jon’s skull, bringing sharp jabs of pain with every bounce. “Ah, in truth, what will be done with you will depend on—hm—a number of things.”

Jon tried again to push himself upright, but his body had since decided to stop repeating the ill-advised action. He couldn’t even figure out how to make his mouth say, “What things?” Though, he quickly decided that the question wouldn’t have been answered to any satisfaction anyway.

“But,” Michael continued, “you’re no use to anyone in your current state. You need to recover.”

It was hard to disagree. Even the effort of pulling blankets back over himself made him groan weakly. Later. All the questions and confusion and processing _what the hell just happened, what the hell did he do, what the hell would he do now_ could come later.

“Rest well, Jonathan Sims.”

For the first time in a long time, Jon slept without a single nightmare.

#

He woke with a cane resting across his chest.

#

Jon spent the first few days expecting… something. Some thugs hired by the Magnus Institute bashing down his front door, or maybe some other Entity taking advantage of Jon’s new vulnerability and sneaking in during the night. The thought had occurred to him on more than one occasion that, unless he spent every second listening carefully at the walls, he was unlikely to notice if his flat started filling up with worms until it was too late.

At least he knew by heart where all the fire extinguishers in his flat were. At least he was no longer having nightmares—or any dreams whatsoever.

Michael showed up every so often, “checking in on him.” Never more than a few minutes at a time, leaving Jon unsure whether to be more frustrated at the intrusions—Michael wasn’t always in the habit of _knocking_ first—or at how little interest Michael showed in actually assisting Jon with his new disability.

“And what have you been doing today, Archivist?”

“Just—practising with this cane. Getting a hang of it.”

“Ah! Good luck, then!”

And then, Jon knew that if he kept speaking, he would be talking to an empty room.

Michael was right. He _hadn_ _’t_ prepared. He had been so fixated on what might come to pass if he stayed with the Magnus Institute, convincing himself that leaving was the only real option, that the idea of planning for what happened _after_ had never entered his mind. He should have at least cleaned his flat, so he would stop banging his sides against out-of-place chairs or stepping on pens and books and other junk littering the floor—though he suspected some of it must have been strewn about by Michael at some point. And it wasn’t as though he could go see an occupational therapist, who might ask increasingly complicated questions about his surgically neat eye sockets (no scars whatsoever, from what he could feel) or his current employment.

He was nothing if not adaptable, though, and once he finally felt comfortable enough to go outside—walking slowly and carefully, self-conscious of how obviously new to his cane he must have looked but still filled with the relief of being _outside—_ he turned his attention entirely towards a single burning question:

What was happening at the Institute?

The safest point of contact, he decided, would be Basira. Someone to talk to who would be _stable_ and _rational_ and not like Michael at all. Someone whose number was in his phone—which he kept expecting to ring at some point, but that was yet another lingering apprehension that never came to pass. Still, it took Jon nearly an hour of sitting frozen on the couch, phone heavy in his hand, yelling at his tongue to just _move_ , before he could finally form his mouth around the words, “Call Basira.”

The call was answered quickly enough, but there was only soft breathing on the other end until Jon eventually ventured, “Basira…?”

“Jon. It _is_ you.”

Jon had expected Basira’s voice to be a relief, but instead it made his tongue swell in his throat. Maybe it was because he had expected to hear relief on _her_ end—or perhaps more likely, anger. Not this quiet bewilderment, like she was lost in thought trying to figure out a puzzle.

He swallowed. “Yeah, it’s me,” he said. “It’s been—Christ, how long _has_ it been? I, er, haven’t been doing a good job at keeping track of time.”

"It's been—" She stopped suddenly, and Jon began to worry that something had happened on her end, before she continued, laughing breathlessly—"ages. It's been _ages_."

Jon frowned. He had wanted a little more certainty than that, some way to help make sense of things for himself. “A few weeks, I think?” he offered.

“That—that seems right,” she said. “Jon, a _lot_ has happened. Where have you _been_?” Finally, there was a hint of the frustration Jon had anticipated. It didn’t make him feel much better.

“I, er, quit,” he said.

“ _Quit?_ ”

“Like Melanie.”

After a short pause, she sighed. “Right. You know what? I figured—I mean, Elias has been acting like—he’s back, by the way. Elias is. Like we’re all just meant to forget that he was in jail for _murder_. He just strolls right back in and—”

“Basira,” interrupted Jon. “Can we talk in person? I think we both have a lot to say.”

A few uneasy seconds of silence. “I think so. I think we can. That sounds good.”

Jon hesitated. It would have been much easier to ask Basira to come over to his flat, but this was an opportunity to combat his growing cabin fever. “Would your place work?” he asked.

More silence. It was like they were speaking with a delay, like some translator between them had to rephrase everything before the other could respond. “I don’t see why not,” she finally said.

Hardly the most confident of answers, but clearly things had been rough for her, and Jon didn’t want to push it. He tried to quiet the awful theories already clouding his head— _how the hell did Elias get out of jail?_ —and focused on memorising the address Basira gave him.

When he hung up, he wasn’t sure if the nervous energy buzzing through him was excitement or dread.


	3. Questions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Unreality

Jon very quickly regretted not telling Basira to take the trek to him. While rideshare got him most of the way there, it still meant a constant creeping feeling that he was being somehow taken off course, especially given the overly chatty driver’s constant questioning over where exactly he was headed and why.

Maybe he could have asked Michael for a door.

The worst part was, at the end of this ordeal, needing to knock on a door that he was only mostly sure was Basira’s. This time, at least, Basira’s voice came as a true relief. “Jon? I wasn’t sure if you really— _oh my God_.”

Sunglasses would have been a good idea. “Like I said, I followed Melanie’s example.” Jon forced out a laugh, but only managed a few short humourless breaths. “Though, it’s, er, a bit more complicated than that. Can I come in?”

"Yes, yes," she said hurriedly. "Come in. Um. Do you want me to get you seated—?” She sounded as frazzled as Jon felt.

He nodded. Basira lightly held his arm while she navigated him to a chair at a table, then hurried off saying something about tea.

Silence on top of an unfamiliar environment unnerved Jon. "So," he said, reaching for his most casual voice, "how have you been?"

The kitchen wasn't too far away. "I—I'm not sure," said Basira, following up with her own curt, humourless laugh. "It's been... a time. How long has it been since—?"

“Over the phone, you said a few weeks.”

“A few weeks,” she echoed. “Right, that would make sense.”

The amount of uncertainty and exhaustion in Basira’s voice— _Basira_ , of all people—made Jon shift uncomfortably in his seat. He waited, fiddling with his hands and feeling vaguely like a child about to be lectured at.

Basira sat across from him and sighed heavily. “Where on Earth have you been, Jon?” Her frustration was more expected, more comforting, at least.

Jon found himself, of all things, _embarrassed_. He froze up just thinking about saying anything about the Spiral or Michael, so he began with, “Adjusting. I’ve been adjusting to, er, this.” He gestured vaguely at his face.

“Right,” Basira murmured. “You couldn’t have quit at a worse time, you know. Or maybe it was perfect timing.” Another hollow laugh.

For a moment, Jon held back, caught by an ingrained habit to be _careful_ about his questioning. But he wasn’t the Eye’s Archivist anymore, was he?

“You told me Elias was back at the Institute,” said Jon. “Why? I mean, it was stupid of us to think that jail could contain him—no offence—but why _now_?”

“I should start with Martin,” she said, and Jon’s blood ran cold. “Or Peter? Or—” her voice began to shake, just enough for Jon to notice—”Daisy.”

It wasn’t a great selection of choices, but it came with an odd sense of relief: For once, Jon had asked a question without a perfectly organised narrative unfolding before him. For once, it hadn’t felt like he was _pulling_ something out of her. _Freedom_.

“Peter,” he said. “Start with Peter.”

Silence. “No, no, I’ll start with those Hunters.”

“Wait, _Julia and Trevor_?”

“Yes, them.” She sighed. “They came back to the Institute. Looking for you, I think, but they went after—anyone. It wasn’t pretty. They brought guns.”

“Christ. Is everyone okay?” When seconds passed and Basira hadn’t responded, Jon asked in a lower voice, “How bad was it?”

“Bad. A lot of Institute workers.” She laughed bitterly. “Martin tried to talk to them, of course.”

“Oh, God.” Jon swallowed. “Is—is he—?”

“They didn’t get to him,” Basira said, but before Jon could fully breathe a sigh of relief, she added, grimly, “Daisy didn’t let them.”

The darkness in her voice left Jon silent, but again she didn’t offer anything until he asked, “Basira, what happened to Daisy?”

Her words stumbled out staccato and uneven. “It was—she had—as if the Hunt had—like when she had said—”

“You don’t have to explain,” Jon said hurriedly, “if it’s too much.” He had guessed even from the phone call that things had gotten bad, but he was reeling at just _how_ bad. He wasn’t ready for any sort of therapy session—or funeral. Daisy forced to fight against hunters—Jon shuddered and tried not to imagine the outcome.

In fact, he would have preferred if Basira _hadn_ _’t_ pressed on, a tinge of frustration entering her voice: “It was some kind of transformation. Except—not quite, because it was still _her_ , only— _God_.”

Suddenly, Basira’s chair scraped against the floor as she got to her feet. “Water should be ready,” she muttered before stepping away. “Milk and sugar?”

“Er, yes—both.”

When Basira returned, setting a cup on the table in front of him, Jon didn’t wait for her to sit down before changing the subject. “Elias. You said Elias was back in charge.”

“Oh, I wasn’t sure if I had told you that.” Her laugh was sharp, but at least not quite so hollow. “Yep, he showed up after those Hunters were… dealt with. He said he wanted to ‘debrief’ us.”

Jon tried to find something amusing in the image of Elias stepping out over a field of chaos in order to call for a strategic meeting of his employees, but it was more horrifying than anything.

“He explained that he was back in charge, and that it’d all be back to ‘business as usual,’ like he had never left,” she continued. “You know, I still never actually _met_ Peter. I don’t think I’d be surprised to hear he never actually existed.”

“What about, er, me?” Jon asked. His fidgeting fingers found the edge of the cup of tea, but it was still too hot to consider holding. “Did he mention me?”

“He did,” she said slowly, as though it took some effort to draw the memory out. “He said that you had, well, quit.” More confidently, “Right, he said that you had quit, and he’d be working on hiring a new archivist. I—I wasn’t sure what to think, then.”

Jon nearly asked why, then, she had been so surprised to hear from him that he had quit, but it seemed unfair to interrogate her. It was one thing to hear Elias smoothly present some potential lie about Jon’s departure—another thing entirely, probably, for Basira to hear Jon’s voice on the phone, confirming that he wasn’t returning to the Institute.

Besides, before Jon could have come up with a tactful way to phrase it, Basira continued, “Oh, that thing that was pretending to be Sasha—that ‘Not Sasha’ was there too.” So offhandedly that Jon thought he must have misheard.

“Wait, what? Are you serious? _While_ Julia and Trevor—?”

“Right.” A short pause. “No, wait, it might’ve been a day or two before. Or, er, after?” Frustration grew in her voice once more. “Sorry, I—I don’t know why I’m getting mixed up. I should _know_ —”

“It’s okay,” Jon interrupted. “A lot has happened. It makes sense that things are confusing.” He wasn’t sure how much he believed that, though. Not when it was Basira. He shook his head. “How’s Martin doing, then? I, er, haven’t reached out to him, but if Peter’s gone, then maybe…?”

Basira paused. Hesitant and apologetic, she said, “I haven’t seen Martin since, well, days before that all happened.”

Jon frowned. “I thought you said that Martin was with you,” he said. “With Julia and Trevor?”

“I did?” The following pause lasted for seconds too long. “No, no, right, it must be that I hadn’t seen him _except_ for…”

Jon’s first thought was that Basira might have been hiding something. However, the uncertainty seemed honest, which was much more worrying than the idea that she was trying to protect him from knowing Martin’s fate.

Basira was apparently also unhappy with dwelling on that thought. She continued on, “Anyway, Peter said that we wouldn’t be seeing him again, so—I don’t know. I expect the worst.”

“Elias,” corrected Jon, fidgeting.

“What?”

“You said that Elias debriefed you—that you’ve still never seen Peter.”

“Oh. Elias. I meant Elias.”

The tea must have cooled by now, though his hands felt numb from a growing _wrongness_ coming to the surface that he couldn’t quite identify. However, the drink he brought to his lips was bitter—sugar, but no cream—and he deeply hoped Basira didn’t notice his grimace.

“God, _Elias_ ,” Basira added scornfully. “You should have seen the look on Daisy’s face. I swear she was about to attack him on sight when—”

“Daisy?” asked Jon. “You said that Daisy had…” He couldn’t bring himself to say it, especially if it turned out he had just drawn some unfortunate assumptions from Basira’s muddied description.

“Daisy,” said Basira, blankly. “That’s… I _think_ she was there. I remember her being there, her face. But, no, you’re right, that would have been _after—_ but I _remember_ — _”_

That was what made Jon finally push himself to his feet. “I need to go,” he said hurriedly. “Something’s happening, something—wrong.”

No response. All the more unnerving.

He remembered how Basira had led him in, at least. The front door wasn’t far, though it took some time for his shaking hands to finally brush against the doorknob. Still, Jon couldn’t bring himself to just walk out without any further confirmation. “Basira…?”

“Leave,” Basira growled with an animosity that surprised and chilled him. “I don’t know what’s going on or what’s happened to you, but you need to _leave_.”

Jon nodded and stepped outside without another word. The afternoon sun had the audacity to warm his skin, even while he was suddenly shivering. He should have been committing Basira’s words to memory, trying to sort through the threads, but his mind was blank, even _serene_ , as if some part of him had accepted there were too many contradictions in her story to bother sorting through.

Worst of all, he felt _fed_.

#

As lost as he was in that mental blankness, Jon was surprised to find himself having successfully navigated home. He wasn’t quite pulled back to his senses, however, until a voice rang out behind him just as he was locking the door.

“Archivist!”

It took some moments after his first cry of shock before Jon could be certain that the next words out of his mouth wouldn’t be a string of obscenities. “ _Christ_ , Michael, what—what the hell were you doing here?”

“Waiting. What were _you_ doing?” Accusatory, as if Jon had neglected an appointment with it.

Some strange part of Jon still dedicated to self-preservation told him it was a bad idea to indulge his wishes and tell Michael to just sod off, that he wasn’t in the mood for any cryptic “checking in.” He sighed. “I was meeting with Basira, but things were… wrong. It was like—she kept—” A deep breath to centre himself again. “Look, can you tell me what on Earth was going on?”

“I do not have your previous master’s ability to discern what you’re thinking,” Michael said, amused. “You will, unfortunately, have to explain.”

Jon made a frustrated noise—not at Michael, necessarily, but as a way to stave off needing to respond while he took off his coat and shoes. Michael’s voice had come from the direction of the couch. He didn’t entirely trust that as a reliable indication of its location, but he avoided the area all the same and opted to instead collapse, exhausted, on an old second-hand armchair in the corner of the room.

“I don’t know,” he said, then shook his head, frustrated by how repetition was making those words worse than meaningless. “I needed to find out what had happened to the Institute since I left. A lot, apparently. But the conversation was… weird. Her story kept changing, and it was all over the place—and this is _Basira_. It was like she was having problems answering any of my—” Then it hit him, and his final word came out as a horrified whisper—” _questions_.” He bent over and buried his face in his hands. “Oh my god.”

“It sounds as though you have a theory.”

Anger launched Jon to his feet. “Why didn’t you tell me!?”

“Again, Archivist,” Michael said dryly, “I am incapable of reading your mind.”

“My powers aren’t gone,” he growled. “They’ve _changed_.”

It was silent for a moment, then began to giggle. “Gone? You thought they would be _gone_?”

“I—” The words died in Jon’s throat. No, of course, he was still an avatar. After the Unknowing—it felt like ages ago now—he had woken up and found that he lacked some impossible-to-describe feeling or sensation which had pervaded his existence beforehand. Retrospectively, he had called that feeling _being human_ , and that gap still remained, its edges newly vibrating with impossible colours. It was stupid to think that he wasn’t still exerting some perverse, unnatural influence on the world.

“What are they, then?” Jon asked, defeated. “My new powers?”

"You will have to trust me when I say: I do not know!" It laughed more harshly. "The powers an avatar receives can be quite—ah—unpredictable. Especially in such a _unique_ case."

Jon didn't like how Michael drew out the word "unique,” like it was savouring the taste. Didn’t like how Michael was stepping closer—not quite into his personal space, but he preferred to keep as much distance as possible. He began to walk across the room, hoping that Michael would have the decency not to stand in his way.

“No, no, it wasn’t that she _couldn_ _’t_ answer questions or that she was forgetting things,” he muttered. “It was that her answers were confused. Muddled. Contradictory.” _Distorted_. And it had gotten worse the longer they talked, like each question was adding another filter. He shuddered, thinking how much worse things could have gotten if they had continued—regretting how long he had already stayed.

“Go on,” said Michael, rapt.

Jon would have much preferred to pace in silence. At least the breathless fascination in Michael’s voice convinced him that it was telling the truth: It truly didn’t know what to expect of Jon’s powers. That wasn’t any comfort, though, and the fact that it was so _interested_ in those powers sent another shudder crawling up his spine.

“I think I was making her unsure of what she remembered—or making her misremember entirely.” He sighed. “That sure sounds like the Spiral, doesn’t it?”

“It really does!” Michael’s cheeriness was predictable, but it still made Jon wince. It sounded like it was congratulating him—or, maybe, congratulating itself.

The more he thought about it, the worse the whole situation seemed. “Is it permanent?” he asked. “God, is that what her memories are just _like_ , now? And what if it’s not just those memories, but all of them, from now on—?”

“So many _questions_ ,” Michael chided, though it was clearly more amused than frustrated. “Perhaps I should pay her a visit, then, to see the aftermath. You didn’t ask her anything about me, did you? That could complicate—”

“No—and _no_. The last thing she needs is more of the Spiral.”

Michael gave a short, disappointed, “Aww.” It always so kindly let Jon know when it was pouting. “I will just have to tag along and see the extent of your powers when you next use them.”

A nauseating thought. “No. I’m not doing that again,” Jon said automatically. More to himself, he added, “No questions. I know how to avoid questions.”

“I suppose I can let you believe that for a time,” said Michael. “Though, I would like to know when you next get—hmm— _hungry_.”

Its fading, echoing laughter and the creak of a door closing signalled that Jon was once more alone, hugging himself in a failing attempt to fight off the growing chill.


	4. Feeding

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Unreality (though, really, that should be a CW for the entire work, huh? Another display of Jon's powers, is what I mean.)

The same way an appetiser does little more than make one hungrier, speaking with Basira had reminded whatever inhuman part of Jon what it was like to feed, and it soon became the only thing he could think about. So much of the confusion and fatigue of the past few weeks, the way time seemed to pass both unbearably slowly and with the blink of an eye, was more than him readjusting to his new situation. It was _hunger_ , and now his mind was clearer than ever to focus on that need.

He had stayed with Basira for too long, asking inane questions that only served to _distort_ her memories further. However, he couldn’t stop imagining what it would have been like to stay just a bit longer, ask a few more questions, and listen to the contradictions multiply—and it was hard to convince himself that those thoughts were entirely _worries_ instead of _curiosity_ —or even fantasy. He hadn’t stayed long enough to feel full.

In only a few days, he found himself spending hours laying in bed or on his couch, unable to think through the dense fog that had steadily returned, settling over him like dust. Hours occasionally interrupted by bursts of nervous energy, an awful tension that seemed to make the world vibrate. He remained laying down then, too, tossing and turning, not wholly confident that he would be able to keep his feet from carrying him out the door to start yelling questions on the street corner as some sort of desperate ploy for relief. Some part of him must have thought he could just push through this, like detoxing from an addiction. Another part knew that this was untenable.

Michael next returned during a period of lethargy, its voice suddenly announcing, “Is this really how you intend to spend the day, Archivist? You haven’t moved in at least an hour.”

Jon didn’t even have the energy to jump. Slowly, he pushed himself up, if only to prove that he still could. Too tired to think about the implication of how long it had been watching him. “What do you want?” he groaned.

“For my avatar to not sink into the abyss,” Michael said, frustrated. “Are you not comfortable foraging without your sight? You could have asked—”

“I don’t want to ‘forage’,” Jon bit back, irritable through how awful he felt.

“Fish. Search. Trap. Whichever metaphor.”

Before Jon could argue that the metaphor wasn’t the problem, there were fingers wrapped around his upper arms. Fingers that were too long, with too many joints, sharp although they didn’t cut into Jon’s skin—his yelp was out of surprise, not pain. Touch that felt somehow like a high pitch whine pulling him upwards, then he was forcefully set down on his feet and had to stumble to keep his balance.

“Right,” he mumbled while straightening out his shirt, as if needing to keep some sort of self-respect after the noise he had made. Standing upright was already injecting him with that nervous tension, an unbearable itch—and uncertainty. With the Eye, he could walk out into any public space and scan for the perfect hook. He was less sure of his chances now, entirely expecting Michael to shove him out into the streets.

So it was a surprise that Michael took his arm again. It was still inhuman and ill-defined, but less inherently unpleasant—a light pressure constricting his entire upper arm and a vague feeling of presence against his side. “I’ll get you a door.”

#

Jon realised, stepping onto sidewalk into thick city air, that Michael hadn’t let him grab his cane, which he kept hung by the front door. Meaning he had to stick close to Michael. Its touch refused to resolve into distinct body parts, but he had the _impression_ of its elbow hooked around his upper arm. Not awful, actually, but absolutely not his preference.

“We are going to the house of someone who has recently met with a creature of fear,” Michael explained.

“How do you know?” asked Jon. “Did he meet _you_?”

“Me? No. One of ours, yes.” Michael tugged him forward. “I do not anticipate it will be quite as filling as a statement drawn from another Power’s, but I would like to _see_.” While it giggled at its own (supposed) joke, Jon only marvelled at how much guiltier he could feel. If this wasn’t going to be a particularly filling victim, even—if he’d have to seek out another person so soon—what was the point?

It wasn’t as though he had much choice, though. Not when Michael was the one to knock on the door, a harsh sound that sounded like a door knocker but was just as likely to be Michael’s knuckles.

The man who opened the door sounded young but tired, uncertain. The sort of fatigue Jon had come to expect out of those unlucky enough to have faced the paranatural. “Hello?”

“We’d like to talk to you about your painting!” No introduction, just Michael’s unnerving cheer.

A few seconds of stunned silence. “How—how the hell do you know about that?”

“Consider us connoisseurs of the supernatural,” said Michael.

“Supernatural,” the man echoed. “I never said to no one that—” He coughed nervously. “You should probably come inside.”

Jon wasn’t sure if he hoped that he and Michael looked normal, to put the man at ease, or if he wanted to carry loud, bright signs reading “BEWARE OF MONSTERS.” A thought he had had often enough when working for the Magnus Institute: How unfair, to have lived through one interaction with one creature of fear only to fall under the awful attention of another. It was a purely intellectual thought, though, with no emotion attached. In reality, he couldn’t stop from shifting his weight from one foot to the other, fidgeting with the ends of his sleeves, _wanting_ to get inside. His version of salivating? He tried to shake the idea out of his head.

“My name’s Jon,” he said, finding himself going for the more normal, personable route—because, of course, this man was doomed already. “And this is Michael.”

“Ross,” said the man. “Ross Hoodwin. Uhm. Sorry it’s a bit of a mess. Don’t think there’s any room to sit down.”

While Michael pulled Jon forward, past Ross, Jon was hit with the harsh chemical smell of paint. There had been carpet near the door, but just a few steps in, the floor became crinkling butcher paper. A makeshift—and dangerously poorly ventilated—art studio, then.

They didn’t walk far before Michael stopped and leaned towards something. “Is this it?”

“Yeah,” replied Ross, dazed. “Wasn’t sure what to do with it, so I just—well—left it on the easel there.”

A few seconds of silence passed before Jon said, “What does—er, I’d like to know what it looks like.”

“A wonderful painting of a storm over the ocean,” Michael explained. “Lots of _fantastic_ details—spiralling clouds, swirling waves. Largely realistic, but expressionist enough to permit some vivid, striking hues. Truly beautiful shot of the moon through the clouds.” Jon got the feeling it was complimenting the painting itself, not its artist.

“Thanks,” Ross mumbled half-heartedly. “I’ve, er, never painted before. Before that, at least.”

“You should ask him how long it took,” Michael said to Jon as it straightened up and turned them both towards Ross.

Ross jumped to answer. “That's the really weird part,” he said, “but that's why you're here, innit?”

Michael responded with only a quick, bony nudge of the elbow against Jon's side.

Jon sighed quietly, steeling himself. "How long did it take?" he asked.

His next inhale smelled like sweet, fresh air.

Words came tumbling out of Ross: “Y’see, it’d be blink of an eye, hours pass, according to the clocks—before the clocks stopped working. And the painting itself, seemed like I was just working on the same lines over and over. Guess I dunno how long something like that would take, but I’m talking days and days, ten hours gone and me left holding a brush in front of—that.”

Michael let out a soft “ah” that Jon likely only heard because he was still so close to it. Something the hold it had on him _rippled_. Excitement? Or maybe something meant for Jon directly, like a pat on the back.

“I swear I’m not mad,” continued Ross. “I’ve never experienced nothing like that. It’s—I mean, that’s why you’re here, right? You know what’s going on.”

Jon bit his lower lip. _You were targeted by some aspect of the literalised fear of going crazy. You still are_ , he imagined saying. Reminded himself that Ross was doomed already—his own head was already clearing up so much from only one question. Better to get through this quickly. “And you said you’ve never painted before?”

“No, no I haven’t. I mean—watercolours as a kid, yeah, but nothing like this. I’d always wanted to be an artist, I guess. But one day, out of the blue, I think to myself, hey, I’m an adult now; I can do whatever I want. So, I go out and get myself this whole set-up. Was gonna work through some tutorials online—cheaper than a class, you know—but I never got the chance before, well, it all got weird.”

“How weird?” Jon asked. “Just the time loss, or—?” Michael rippled again, and he wondered how widely it was grinning.

“The clocks. I said the clocks stopped working, right?” Ross said. “Not that they’d be stuck or whatnot, but just—blank. And, er, I tried to leave a couple of times but couldn’t? I think the doors were stuck. Or I’d freeze before turning the knob. Something like that.”

Jon tried to keep his curiosity fixated on the painting, but now aware of the new impact of his questions, part of his mind kept attending to Ross’s immediate reactions. He knew that he wouldn’t get the clearest story of what had happened with this painting—he’d probably have a better chance asking Michael, which wasn’t a good chance at all—but also that it didn’t really matter; he wasn’t here to learn about some spooky painting’s powers, but his own.

That didn’t make the curiosity feel any less gruesome.

“Also, the windows,” continued Ross. “Something with the windows. Like—er—well—”

“Take your time,” Jon said flatly. Michael let out a few poorly-stifled giggles.

“No, no, y’see—” The sound of some curtains being drawn—”this window just looks out to the street, right? Or, er, shit, sorry, _you_ don’t see, but _you_ do, yeah? But sometimes I’d open it and it’d be, well, just like the painting, I suppose. All stormy and ocean-y.”

Sighing, Ross drew the curtains closed and said, “You believe me, right? I swear it was days, maybe weeks, but after I finish the painting, I go back to work and find out it’s only been a weekend. Nobody even missed me.”

Jon found himself wondering how much the exact wording of his questions mattered. He didn’t want to think of himself as experimenting, but he was still deliberate when he asked, “You didn’t sleep, did you?”

“I—did? I think I did. Must’ve done. But, like I said, the clocks—I mentioned the clocks, right?”

Jon felt the most awake and clear-headed that he had been in ages. Clear-headed enough to wonder what would happen if he lied and told Ross that he hadn’t mentioned the clocks—and enough to wince internally at the fact he would think such a thing.

Ross went on, his rate of speed steadily increasing, “But—I guess I don’t _really_ remember. Sleeping, that is.” Ross gasped quietly with realisation. “God, what if it _was_ just a weekend. Had to have been, right? What am I saying, acting like this was anything more than some weird weekend.” He then laughed awkwardly, some poor attempt to lighten the mood. “Artists get lost in their work all the time, don’t they? Was probably just that. I’m sure it was just that. ‘Specially with all the paint fumes.”

A sudden, unexpected flash of anger at that, at the mistaken certainty in Ross’s voice. Too much like what Jon might have affected years ago, a naive scepticism before he had experienced firsthand the attention of a Dread Power's avatar burrowing into his flesh. That he might leave someone _more_ certain about the nature of the world—a world where Ross was sharing a room with the human-shaped arm of some endless hallways—felt _unfair_. His next question came out as an accusation: "Even seeing an ocean outside your window?" Now anticipating the poison in his words, he felt the question land with a satisfying thud.

“That was—oh. God, that sure sounds mad, don’t it?”

“Oh, it’s nothing to be ashamed of,” said Michael, surprising Jon with its addition. He had begun to think of it as some sort of silent observer.

Clearly more to himself, Ross muttered, “But the door was locked—I _think_ the door was locked.”

Jon thought again about explaining things. Did the Spiral require that they _stay_ confused about their experiences? Probably—he found it impossible to move his mouth when thinking of any sort of disclosure. At best, all he could say was, pityingly, “It’s alright.”

“I don’t know what you two came here for, but I’m sure it wasn’t to talk to a madman,” said Ross. “God, that’s all it was, wasn’t it? I’m crazy. I’ve got to be absolutely crazy.”

Panic. Jon didn’t want panic. “I think we got what we wanted,” he hurriedly said to Michael. “Haven’t we?”

“Have we? You’re the one in charge,” said Michael, unreassuringly.

More assertively, then, Jon said, "We have. It was, er, nice to meet you, Ross." Tried and failed at not sounding too obviously apologetic.

“Right,” Ross said. “Right, of course. I didn’t mean to—right. Er, thanks—whatever your names were. I—I think I need to see someone.”

“We wish you the best of luck,” said Michael dryly, though Jon wasn’t sure how much Ross might have picked up on its scathing insincerity. Jon tried to focus instead on Michael guiding him, on not stumbling over its longer strides.

Just as they stepped out the front door, Ross called out from behind them. “Wait.” He sounded so lost that Jon's throat closed up entirely. "Could—could you take the painting, at least? Don't know what else to do with it."

Michael tittered. "No, I do not believe we would have much use for it, would we?" In a stage whisper, it added, "Besides, I think she likes you."

It nudged Jon as if it was some joke meant for him alone, but he didn’t feel like laughing.


	5. Dreams

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just want to say thank you to everyone supporting this! I’m a bit, let’s say, socially anxious about responding to comments, but know that I really am appreciating each one.
> 
> CWs: Canon-typical worms and vague body horror.

That night, Jon dreamt.

Not since losing his eyes had he dreamt. It had been a massive relief—even a source of outright _joy_ —that he could wake up with no recollection of anything after his head hit the pillow. Hunger, he now realised, had prevented him from ever feeling _truly_ rested, but it was offset by the best sleep in months and months.

So, some part of him was instantly aware something was wrong when he found himself standing over a gash in the earth, _looking_ down at a collapsed section of sewer. A memory? But it was every bit as vivid as those those prior dreams, suffused with an odd lucidity that told him that this nightmare didn’t truly belong to him.

Under the piles of deadly shattered debris, a woman helplessly clawed at the ground in front of her, trying to pull her way out even as the small movements tore strips down her back. When she looked up at Jon, she froze, hands still outstretched.

She could barely breathe with the concrete crushing her chest, each inhale made agonising by the dust coating her lungs, but despite that, Jon could hear her speak. "No, no, you can't be back—I can't do this again—”

Jon couldn't say anything, wasn’t even sure if he had a mouth. _That_ remained the same.

“Wait,” she said. “You look wrong.”

He felt wrong. A discomfort, like an itch, like there was something bothersome in the corner of his eye, except there was so little of him at the moment that _wasn_ _’t_ eye. So little of him that could do anything except _watch_ as ants began to pour out of the rubble—no, as the rubble _became_ ants. The woman screamed.

Ants weren’t right, felt like something slipping somewhere, but things only truly began to process as _incorrect_ and _wait, no, stop_ when the ants became worms became smoldering filth became still-hot ashes. The woman was still screaming, and a chorus had joined her of other panicked, burning victims. Choked by burning maggots burrowing into skin and down their throats. An exterminator, a recently-met rookie artist.

Jon tried to pull his attention away, _move on_ , but instead of the clean break, the end page, the _yes-this-is-someone-else_ _’s-story_ —instead, the pile of ash gave way to broiling ocean and the overpowering stench of blood. The same souls trapped within, pulled down beneath the waves by disembodied hands grasping at their kicking legs. Gasping for breath but only ever just enough to keep them from losing themselves entirely.

He turned and saw a classroom, twisted and crushed under some impossible pressure thrusting jagged sheets of metal down through the ceiling into still-beating hearts, into the twisted form of a professor whose anatomy couldn’t easily integrate the cold steel. Unlike the other in the room who integrated it all too well, biting down through the plastic shards already in her mouth.

He turned and saw the professor again, now with the others struggling against the raging sea. Some massive shadow lurked under the waves, now on the verge of erupting into something awful.

He turned and saw a door.

Before, he had always shied away from the presence, fearing the sway it might have in this dreamscape. Now, he rushed towards it, even as the wall seemed to pull back away from him.

Finally, his palms landed against hard, warm wood, just as from behind him the gunfire started.

Jon woke in a panic, tangled in bedsheets, shouting Daisy’s name.

#

“I had a dream.”

It was the first thing Jon had said upon hearing Michael’s door crack open. He had been incapable of focusing on anything the entire morning, between the afterimages still haunting him and the suspicion that Michael would be showing up sooner rather than later. He had been at his table, trying to convince himself to dig into the eggs and toast he’d made—not that he had much of a desire or need to eat these days, but the routine seemed important somehow. Even if his distracted state meant it had taken ages, and the eggs were probably burnt.

In a way, Michael’s appearance was something of a welcome distraction.

“Ah, yes, how _did_ that go?” it asked.

“You knew.” Not really a question.

“I have been, ah—” Michael struggled to find the right word—” _withholding_ your dreams from you, in a way. Until yesterday.”

Jon hoped he was furrowing his brows in the right direction. “You’re the reason I wasn’t having nightmares?”

“Yes? You seem surprised.”

“I am!” exclaimed Jon. “Why would you do that?”

Michael let out a short hum with the finality of a satisfactory answer. Jon heard a heavy stack of papers land on the table and Michael get into the chair across from him, but before he could say anything, it asked, “How was it? The dream. I was—too busy to make it there myself.”

Jon hesitated for a moment before sighing. “It was awful,” he said. “Before, with the Eye, I would watch people relive the worst parts of the statements. Their nightmares.”

A quiet crunch. Michael must have stolen a piece of toast. Jon didn’t feel like calling it out on that.

“This was like that,” Jon continued, “but different. Used to be just one person’s memories at a time, but here, it was… mixed together.” He shook his head. “Ross’s, Basira’s, even the previous—” _victims?_ —”statement-givers.”

He briefly described the ants and the worms, the ocean of blood, the screaming, unsure why he was saying any of it. Just to talk, maybe. It had been weeks since any simple, straightforward conversation with anyone. It was an awful topic, but at the same time, talking felt nice. Like setting things in order.

Michael’s response, however, soured the mood somewhat. “Fascinating,” it said. “Even the Archives’ statements? That’s quite the power.”

“Is that meant to be a compliment?”

“Yes.” Stated so plainly that it was clear Michael wouldn’t be convinced otherwise. Another crunch of toast.

Jon frowned. Still puzzled about Michael’s role in this, he pressed again from a different angle. “If you _were_ preventing the nightmares, why did you stop?” He fully expected the question to be shrugged off again, but the promise of _dreamless sleep_ had been taken from him, when he had come to believe it was a perk of his new existence. He was annoyed.

“It is not without effort that I can stall your metabolism,” Michael replied lazily, bored. “I was giving you the opportunity to get acclimated. And now, you no longer need that assistance.”

“Acclimated,” Jon echoed, unsure what to think. He had only just stopped slamming his upper thigh against the bed post most of the time—a bad habit even when he had his sight—but that was hardly _acclimated_.

“So, will you be finishing that?” Michael sounded honestly curious, not impatient.

Jon prodded his fork into the eggs a few times, then sighed and pushed the plate away from him. “No, I don’t think so.”

“Right,” said Michael. Some clacking silverare and shuffled papers. Too eager and excited, it announced, “I have something for you!”

Jon tried his best to guess at what awful things it might have brought for him, but the only image to come to mind was that of a cat happily gifting its owner a dead mouse. He jumped a bit when he found his hand taken, guided, towards the pile of papers now sitting in front of him. His fingers ran across a series of even bumps that read “the story of a—”.

He jerked his hand back as if the paper had been burning metal.

“I don’t know braille,” he said, dumbfounded. But after a few moments, he couldn’t help but return his fingers, tentatively, to brush across the lines of text that were now coming to him as naturally as if he had been reading braille all his life.

“Ah,” Michael said with his typical air of amusement. “More inheritance from the Observer-of-All.”

That made Jon snap away from the papers once more. The air turned cold and he could feel eyes—countless, countless eyes—on his back. Still the Beholding followed him. Blind and under the protection of the Distortion, he could still accidentally brush up against it. The dreams were one thing, and now this: It was still _inside him_ , latching onto his thoughts and feeding him this horrible knowledge.

“That’s bad,” he said. “That’s bad, right?”

“And what would be _bad_ about it?” Michael asked, earnestly confused.

“It’s still influencing me!”

“It is not influence so much as—hmm—let us call it _theft_.” Jon didn’t need to see its grin to sense a predatory sharpness to it. “Like your dreams.”

That wasn’t much more comforting. “Won’t it, well, know?” asked Jon.

Michael laughed for a far longer time than Jon thought necessary. “Know _what_?” it finally got out, breathless. “That you no longer belong to it? It is well aware of _that_ already.” Then, lower, deadlier, “And there is nothing it can do about it.”

Jon tried to distract himself from the shudder running up his spine by turning back to the text. It was some children’s story about a horse and a dog learning to be friends—an oddly thoughtful touch, since Michael couldn’t have known how fluently Jon could read. Or maybe it was just the first book Michael had found.

It would, Jon had to admit, make certain things more convenient, once he got over the uncanniness of how instinctively the words entered his head. Labelling. Navigation. A spark of hope suddenly lit up in him.

“I could read statements,” he said. “If I got into the Institute and grabbed some, I could get them converted and read them and not have to—”

He was cut off by Michael’s stifled laughter that, once Jon went silent, it stopped holding back. “Can you not tell? You do not feed on _knowledge_ , Archivist,” it giggled. “You feed on its _confounding_. Any statement in their possession is already settled and partially _known_.” More dryly, it continued, “Though, I should commend you for considering stealing from the Eye’s own exhibition.”

Jon bristled at the condescension. “Why do you still call me that? I’m not ‘the Archivist’ anymore.”

“You are no longer _the Eye_ _’s_ Archivist. Perhaps this is what being _the Spiral_ _’s_ Archivist is,” it mused. “I wouldn’t know. I’ve never had one before.” It giggled. “Now, _Archivist_ , are you interested in another—?”

“No.”

A few moments’ pause before Michael huffed. “Well,” it said, reacting as if Jon had insulted it. “All you have to do is say the name, you know.” Its door creaked open. “ _Do_ try not to starve yourself.”

Jon had already turned his attention back to the book, testing how slowly or quickly he could read, how it felt to concentrate on the individual raised dots as opposed to the complete sentence. There was something familiar in that, in the _just-knowing_ , and it reminded him of Gerry’s eerie explanation that none of the fears were _truly_ separate. He could practically feel Michael’s eyes linger on him for a few moments before the door finally closed.


	6. Difficulties

The first conversation he would later ruefully recall as a horrific omen came at a local diner, a long-time personal favourite. Just to enjoy himself. Just to feel like he was providing his body some sustenance that wasn’t at the cost of someone else’s mental health. To feel like things could return—were returning—to some sort of normal.

He got his usual. Simple enough. Potato scramble, tea. Back to the routine of excessive amounts of caffeine to help stave off those hours when his treacherous body forced him to sleep. He waited while feeling at the underside of the table for scratches of graffiti—not anything he could resolve into words without perfectly mundane concentration and inference.

The nightmares changed each night. Some nights, the sky was collapsed in, an echo of Jon’s time within the Buried, even as the worms crawled through the soil and flesh alike. Some nights, it was the vastness of the sea. He couldn’t shake the feeling that he was exposing people to new monsters they might have otherwise stayed happily ignorant of, claimed as they had been by their own experiences. The cleverness of the combinations even shocked Jon at times—no predictable repetition to numb and distance himself from the events playing out before him. Of course the Spiral loved to mix things up, and Jon had a hard time deciding whether his victims faced an even worse fate now.

But it was hard to focus too much on his own anxieties while trying to keep track of all the noises of the diner. Maybe that was another reason he decided to eat out: to redirect his guilt into anxiously waiting for some agent of the Magnus Institute to confront him. Tried to connect the rhythm of each set of footsteps to a possible assailant, to someone lingering a bit too close to him, but most of them fused into an indistinct amalgamation of potential danger. So, in his hypervigilance, he heard the waiter approaching from a ways away and leaned back to give room for the food.

Instead, what came was a voice timid with the polite embarrassment of a service worker who had made a mistake somewhere. “Sorry,” they said, “I must’ve spaced out on your order at some point. Would you mind repeating—?”

Frustrating, but it wasn’t as though he was _hungry_ in any way other than supernaturally. But he _was_ hungry. So there was a hint of irritability when he repeated, “The potato scramble, _please_.”

He’d have his cane, at least, if attacked, though he doubted he’d be able to do much damage with it. More significantly, if he was abducted, Michael would help, wouldn’t it? That was part of the deal, Jon had to guess—the eagerness in its eyes, one of the last things he saw, didn’t suggest something that would easily let its prize be kidnapped.

That wasn’t as reassuring as he would have hoped.

The hunger was awful. Whenever he decided that a pair of footsteps probably wasn’t about to come racing at him violently, part of him would wonder if their owner had any notable experiences to ask about. Without his previous ability to _know_ who in a room would have a story to tell, Jon wondered if he’d have to resort to asking people individually and trying to determine if their confused answers were hiding something more nourishing. But “wondering” danced just on the edge of “fantasising,” and he was soon rehearsing potential questions for an unlucky passerby—completely hypothetically.

“Excuse me,” came the waiter’s voice again, too quickly, this time startling. “I’m so sorry, but you said you wanted—”

“Potato scramble.” Jon tried to not be resentful—he really did. He knew how difficult being a server could be, had been unhappily forced into it himself during his university years. But twice? It was either a particularly rough day or someone who didn’t care much about their job.

Maybe he’d ask the waiter first.

He quickly shook his head to try to dislodge the idea. _Probably not their fault_. Not that “fault” had ever figured into his feeding choices before.

As a second jolt to his system, there came the sudden rap of hard, clicking knocks on the table, like metal on metal, even though the table was wood. No preceding footsteps as warning, and only the minimal sounds of ruffling clothes as someone quietly slid into the booth across from him.

This, at least, was someone—something—Jon didn’t mind displaying frustration at. “What?” he said. But Michael’s presence suggested something beyond the simple stresses of food service life.

He hadn’t _already_ asked any questions, had he? He was certain he hadn’t. But strictly speaking, questions weren’t the only way to compel someone, were they? Especially when, every few minutes, some part of him kept drifting back to memories of being _full_.

“Shit,” he breathed.

After a few moments of silence, Michael spoke. “You know, Archivist, you have the bad habit of expecting me to know what you’re thinking.”

“I’m not—it’s not that,” Jon countered. In a conspiratorial whisper, he said, “I think I’m accidentally feeding on someone here.”

“That doesn’t seem very smart of you,” it said. “I don’t sense anyone here who has been marked, though I suppose that may not be entirely necessary to—”

“ _Accidentally_ ,” Jon hissed. He tried not to think of the full ramifications of that—of not being in full control of himself. Just a slip-up in his hunger. Unfamiliarity with his new powers.

“—satiate,” it continued, uninterrupted. “Though, a _diner_ feels a bit, hmm, obvious, wouldn’t you say? Symbolic, but—ah.”

The waiter had, predictably, returned. Jon winced when he heard their voice again. “Oh,” they said, “I—I’m sorry, I don’t think I got your order—?”

“No,” said Michael, “I’ll be sharing a plate with my—” there was a notable pause—” _friend_ , here. What _was_ your order?”

“Potato scramble,” Jon mumbled, feeling self-conscious, as if Michael was invading his privacy by knowing about something as personal as his food choices.

“Right,” it said. “Just his potato scramble, please.”

Jon was getting fidgety, so when the waiter left again and Michael still hadn’t said anything after a few seconds, he sniped, “Why are you following me?”

“What do you mean?”

“You usually only bother me when I’m at home,” he said, only just realising why he was thrown by Michael’s sudden presence.

Michael hummed. “I suppose I do,” it said. As if no further response was needed.

It wasn’t as though Jon was unaware of what Michael wanted, though. Throughout their conversations, which occurred daily now—and on one day, twice—the topic of Jon’s hunger hung over them, largely unspoken aside from Michael’s leading questions about whether Jon was okay, how he was feeling, whether he wanted anything, wanted to _do_ anything. Taunting him.

“Well, I’m _fine_ ,” Jon said.

“Ah, I would not disagree.” A quiet, confusing tittering.

The food came shortly after—must’ve been rushed—accompanied by another host of apologies and promises of a hefty discount. No tea, though Jon found it hard to care too much about that now. Michael grabbed the plate first and shovelled some amount of it onto its own plate before setting it back in front of Jon, helpfully tapping the side of the plate with hard clacks once it was done.

It at least tasted as good as usual, in the same way lavender or vanilla could be expected to smell as good as usual, and filling his mouth meant not having to respond to Michael’s expectant silence.

Jon could hear it eating too, which bothered him far more than it had any right to. Emphasising how little either of them needed to do this? Ridiculously, the image came to mind of Michael picking at its food with massive claws, skewering vegetables with each of its fingers. That couldn’t be what it was doing—there would have been a lot more shocked murmuring around them—but it was an amusing idea all the same, and Jon might have even smiled to himself.

He still couldn’t get more than halfway through the plate, though. Setting his fork down, he sighed. He’d feel bad for dining and dashing, but considering the creeping suspicion that there were longterm consequences to his powers—some risk of unpleasant dreams, or at the very least, the lingering self-doubt of having struggled so much with a simple order—it was probably worse to continue this _confounding_. “Fine. Fine. Do you have someone for me, then?”

The smile in Michael’s voice was so clear, Jon wondered for a moment if the impression was part of its sensory jumbling. “In fact, I do.”

#

The next problematic conversation occurred the next day. Jon, refreshed and alert and only moderately guilty, decided to try out the library. If, as Michael had said, there was little risk of Eye-related adverse effects, then being able to read books in braille was an appealing new diversion—especially for when he couldn’t concentrate on audiobooks or podcasts, paranoid he’d miss the sounds of some invasion or other danger.

So, a trip to the library to find accessible resources, to try to feel more secure in his new life.

He was, of course, a master of circumlocution. “I'd like to know if there are any groups for the blind that meet around here.” “I need help navigating.” “I’m also looking for your braille section.” Keeping his voice flat to avoid the slightest hint of a direct question.

It didn’t work.

She was trying—she really was. But, immediately, there was hesitance in the way she guided him across the library, doubling back at one point, though Jon didn’t draw attention to it, trying to convince himself that the library might have been more confusingly laid out than he remembered from his previous, sighted visits.

Maybe he should have left then. Seen, in a sense, the writing on the wall.

“You, er,” the librarian said, “you said you were looking for—no, braille, of course—”

Jon bit at his lip. “Yes,” he said, low and even. Focusing now entirely on the idea of restraint, though he wasn’t sure _what_ he was restraining. It all still felt so normal, mundane, just a everyday conversation that shouldn’t have led to so much confusion in her voice.

It didn’t help much that she kept talking. To keep Jon comfortable as he lightly held her elbow, or possibly to keep her head straight, the frail airiness in her high voice. “And what sorts of genres are you interested in?”

Keeping his language so deliberate had always been draining, and especially now that he was beginning to wonder if _questions_ weren’t actually what he should have been paying attention to. “Nothing in particular. I just want to see what you have.”

Her pace slowed in a way that told Jon they were at their destination. However, as Jon let go of her arm, she let out a small, polite cough. “You said you needed—magnifiers?”

“No, no. It’s, er, all gone here.” A vague gesture towards his face and a forced smile that felt more like a grimace. He couldn’t manage a laugh. “I can read braille though. That’s what I’m looking for.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry, we don’t keep a collection of books like that. I could absolutely help with finding you—I don’t know—a bookstore or—”

That was the last straw. Jon shook his head and took a half-step back, bumping his hip against a table or counter—more surprising than painful, but he still jumped.

“O-oh, careful. Uhm. Do you need help finding your way out?”

Maybe? His head was spinning and he had only a vague sense of where the exit was, but at the same time, he worried he might somehow confuse this woman into forgetting where the exit was herself.

“Sorry,” Jon said, half to the table and half to the librarian. “I’m fine. Just tell me where—” Questions. “No, I’m fine.”

He felt sick.

#

He next tried a restaurant. Somewhere he wasn’t looking for information, just a simple service.

_A table for one._

“Has your party arrived?”

_I_ _’m not waiting for anyone. It’s just me._

“Oh, hullo. Have you been helped?”

_Yes, you—someone took my name down already._

“Are you looking for someone?”

_No, I_ _’m waiting to be seated._

Even when he was finally seated—a table had opened up just as Jon was asked by a confused waiter how long he had been waiting—it took far too long for anyone to come around to get his order, and even then, they sounded surprised, like Jon shouldn’t have been sitting there at all.

He left after that.

His hands were shaking when he made it home, mind blank—blocked, in a way, from putting the pieces together. But the pieces were big enough on their own: No questions, no effort, no feeling, on his end, of anything unusual. Confused, polite coughs in response, awkward pauses, frustration. He didn’t let himself take the next step, consider what this meant for him now, what actions lay before him.

He sat on the couch for a long time—waiting, he realised, for Michael.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- End of Part One -
> 
> It's all uphill from here! Or downhill. Some sort of hill, anyway.


	7. Rites

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Self-enforced isolation, which will admittedly be part of Jon's life for a while yet. (An aspect of this AU that was plotted out well before March, even. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯)

It was the tiniest, stupidest thing.

Jon's oven wasn't working.

Something his landlords should have taken care of, but when the third phone call sent a plumber to his door, he began to suspect that it was more than a matter of typical landlord negligence.

He hadn’t left the house in days. It was easy, simple, to work himself into a pattern of meaningless rituals: Endless podcasts. Audiobooks. Though he had never been interested in cooking—or food in general—his half-hearted attempts at productivity consisted of overly complex recipes that more often led to burnt hands and cut fingers (all healed immediately; that, at least, hadn’t changed) than anything remotely appealing to eat. Don’t think about going grocery shopping when the time came that all that remained were old cans whose labels he could no longer read. Don't think about how unsatisfying it was to spend hours tabbing through Wikipedia articles, occasionally falling asleep to the droning, digitised voice and waking up with a cry of shock and some new slew of horrible images burned into phantom retinas.

Definitely don't think about the Magnus Institute, what was happening there, what happened to Elias and Daisy and Basira and Martin. Jon tried to think of himself as having _done his job_ by leaving, by foiling whatever plans were doubtlessly made for him. But there was always that nagging feeling that he should be doing, somehow, more. The Institute was still _there_ , after all.

A broken oven felt like such a mundane problem by comparison. Too mundane. Sacrilegious, even, to be standing in the middle of his living room, telling himself that what he was about to do didn’t feel like _summoning_ or _prayer._ Not that Michael was a god or at all _holy_ —Jon all but physically recoiled from the idea—but to call upon the so-called Throat of Delusion, the begrudgingly physical embodiment of the fear of derangement, for simple home maintenance?

Jon expected Michael to slam its door in his face.

He took a few deep breaths, each one ending in a wordless exhale until, finally, with one, he managed to say, “Michael?”

The last consonant was still on his tongue when its door creaked open somewhere behind him. He turned, but Michael disoriented him further by quietly laughing from where Jon had been originally facing.

“To what do I owe the honour, Archivist?”

The showy greeting didn’t help Jon feel better about this ridiculous request. “Er,” he said. “I have something I want you to do.”

“ _Oh_?” So immediately eager, Jon almost winced.

“My oven. It’s not working. I was thinking you could call to get someone to look at it?” he said, a bit rushed, almost tripping over his words to get them out before Michael had the chance to pass judgement.

Silence. Jon was certain that it must have just left without even the audio cue to let him know he was alone now. He sighed, trying to feel relieved that he wouldn’t have to be around Michael more than absolutely necessary. Failed to.

But some seconds later, there came a few poorly stifled giggles, and Jon stood straighter. "And why have you not called anyone yourself?” asked Michael. “Do you have a fear of phones, Archivist?"

“That’s not it.” Jon bit at his lip, stalling. Michael had checked in the past few days, as usual—never at a consistent time, frustratingly—but Jon had always brushed its greetings aside with simple ‘ _I_ _’m fine_ ’s. He couldn’t bring himself to admit anything, to solidify it into words, but now seemed as good a time as any. "My powers," he said. "I can't fully control them yet. It’s like there's some passive aura of, er, well, you've seen it. I don’t know how to stop it. So, I can’t call anyone. Not at the moment."

"Ah. Okay."

“Okay?” Jon had expected more questions, more prodding. Ridicule, even. Or, perhaps—though Jon knew better than to push for it—some sort of explanation. So, anticipation hung like a dense cloud over Jon as he followed Michael’s heavy steps into the kitchen, curiosity shifting towards what it even intended to do. Turn the door into an opening into some strange pocket dimension? He counted himself lucky that the hobs were gas burners, not the heated metal coils that God only knew what the Spiral would do with.

There were a few seconds of clicking as it fiddled with the knobs, then opened and closed the door a few times. Jon flinched at a scraping sound it made briefly, like a fork across a plate, and some odd tapping that sounded like they were from something much denser than a kitchen appliance. Meanwhile, all he could do was wait, leaning against a wall in order to feel as though he were calmly overlooking an ordinary requested service.

“So,” said Jon, “are you going to call someone?”

"No. I," it said, then paused, “remember?" Like it was surprised too. "I remember… certain things. _He_ was hardly a mechanic, but had managed to survive in the world long enough to—ah."

Clunks of metal being moved around and the click of something either pulled out or put into place. Jon just had to trust that it wasn’t tearing the entire thing apart.

“It’s not going to be—you know— _cursed_ after this, right?” he asked. “Change how things taste, turn food into poison, that sort of thing?

“Would you like it to?”

“No!” Too loud and emphatically. He let out a quiet cough. “No, I’d just like it working again. Please.”

“For your ‘cooking’.” Its giggles resonated from, clearly, inside the appliance.

Teasing him. Was he smiling? He didn’t mean to be smiling—pursed his lips into a straight line.

“Would you like to help?” Jon found himself saying, a surprise even to himself. “I mean, I need to clean things up around the kitchen. And it’s not like I can read—”

“Of course!” It was on its feet in moments, suddenly right there in front of him, looming over him, though Jon suspected it might have been throwing its voice even higher, because he didn’t remember it being _that_ tall.

Couldn’t exactly take back the offer. The air seemed to _spark_ , like he had stepped into a strong magnetic field, and the hair on the back of his neck was standing straight. He even held his breath for a few moments, _expectant_ , before really processing that the expectation was coming from Michael.

“Oh. Right,” Jon said.

And then, somehow, minutes later, Jon was listening to Michael rattle (a bit too carelessly) through pantries and read out expiry dates that, embarrassingly, Jon swore predated his move into this flat. There was surprisingly little judgement in its voice at these; its taunting, teasing verdicts were restricted to his tastes.

“ _Prunes,_ Archivist?” “Cornbread mix. Not expired, but I will be throwing it away in any case.”

It felt like _doing_ something. Real, goal-oriented productivity, as well as the most significant piece of social interaction that Jon had had in—weeks? It wasn’t even all that much beyond Michael dutifully describing the foodstuffs in an overeager, lilting tone and Jon telling it where to put them, how to mark the containers so that he’d be able to identify them later. Straightforward, purely practical. Quick, with little chatter in between.

When Michael finally left, home settled into a stifling silence.

#

The next one Michael brought Jon to was someone stalked by a thing that first struck him as obviously of the Hunt, but then again, maybe the Stranger or even Flesh, the way she described confusingly shifting forms, no stable descriptions except rows of teeth.

All the same.

#

His sleep schedule was completely shot by now. What did it matter, though? No reason to leave the flat, not really, and whether or not the sun was out didn’t make much of a difference to him. If anything, Jon functioned now on caffeine cycles: tea or coffee or just plain caffeine pills he had stocked away, followed by inevitable crashes. He only bothered with an approximately-4-to-7 AM bedtime to keep the days from slipping into _complete_ timelessness.

Sometimes he wouldn’t quite time the crashes right, though, and fell asleep on the couch during the day, waking up groggy and confused, and even calling for his phone to tell him the hour didn’t help situate him in time any better.

Or he could be woken up by Michael.

“Archivist. Archivist.”

It must have been repeating the name for some time, always in the exact same tone like a recording. Jon sleepily waved it away, but when that broken record kept playing, he pushed himself upright.

“I have something for you,” it said.

Groggily: “What?”

A stack of large, heavy braille books landed somewhat painfully on Jon’s lap and spread out over him before he had the chance to keep them all straight, made worse by his jump and cry of surprise. The pile was disturbed further by Michael dropping itself right next to him, and he was already too close to the edge of the couch to slide away.

“Er,” Jon said.

“I want you to read me something.”

“ _Er,_ ” Jon said again. “Why—?”

It shifted with a coiled tenseness, an impression of springs or taut wire. No response except for the growing claustrophobia, between the papers weighing him down and Michael’s pressure against his thigh.

“Okay,” he said. “Okay, what do you want me to read? What are these?”

“ _Options_ ,” it replied, frustrated.

The collection Michael had placed on him was reminiscent of the piles of books his grandmother once dumped out in front of him. An elementary grade book about astronomy advertising tactile diagrams—intriguing, but not the sort of thing to read out loud. Some literary classics Jon vaguely recalled from school. A half-dozen meaningless titles that didn’t tell him anything about the books’ contents. He grabbed one of these at random, because the sooner he was focused on a book, the sooner he might stop noticing how Michael felt next to him, too clearly physical and close, feverishly warm but otherwise feeling exactly like _a human_. It wasn’t breathing, but that didn’t surprise him, somehow.

“How about this one?” Jon asked. “It’s called—”

“I don’t care,” said Michael. “Your choice. Whichever.”

Jon hesitated. The irritation in its voice made him expect _violence_ , not some sort of storytime. But he eventually nodded and managed to shuffle the rest of the heavy books onto the floor by his feet.

He fell into the rhythm easily enough. Not the sort of easy, animated fluency that came from reading statements, of course—nostalgia? Was he feeling _nostalgic_ about it? No, of course not—but he liked to think himself a decent reader regardless. Even if it was a text full of needlessly lengthy sentences, grammatically unclear modifiers, and dialogue that had clearly never been spoken aloud by anyone. Flat, predictable characters and so many tropes that he was certain of entire plotlines by the second chapter.

A more engrossing book might have held his attention better. He was still tired, of course, and interrupted the reading with yawns more than a few times, but more distracting was Michael’s proximity, and then a reflexive embarrassment that he would be so attentive to Michael’s proximity, and then anxiety about that embarrassment, _why_ he would be so embarrassed—

Reading became just a series of one word after another, at a point, and his throat was getting tired. Some chapters in, he came to a stop, hoping that Michael wouldn’t press him further.

Quiet stillness.

Could it sleep? What was originally the clear shape of its thigh and hip had settled—or melted, maybe—into something vaguer, indistinct warmth and weight. It hurt Jon’s head to try to come up with exact descriptors: wet rocks, a sack of packing peanuts, small cotton balls, the sound of a beach. Still no breathing, but some sort of pulsing _alive_ -ness to it all the same—a heartbeat?

The silence lasted for only a few seconds, though, before Michael spoke. “Not a very good one, is it?” Disinterested, but not quite as tense as before.

“Er. Sorry.”

More silence.

"Are you okay?" Jon finally asked.

Some muscle or part of it flinched, and it shifted away, leaving a surprisingly unpleasant chill where it had been touching Jon. "Do not ask me that."

Memories of Elias reacting to his questions. "Shit, I didn't mean to compel—"

It giggled, but each echo was clipped short, as if the laughter simply didn't bother to keep resonating. "Do not think yourself able to affect me, Archivist," it said coolly. "I simply do not wish to... consider."

"Consider having an 'I', right."

All at once, it shot upwards with a force that Jon could feel even through the couch. More tense laughter, at odds with the bitterness in its voice. High pitched, “Do not—” then lower, deadlier, “Do _not_ presume to _know_ , Archivist.”

Jon hadn’t expected to freeze so completely in the face of Michael’s ire. He was surprised, after a few moments, not to feel its fingers stabbed through his shoulders; it took far too many long seconds for him to finally open his mouth. “I’m s—”

But the sound of a shutting door cut off any attempt at apology.

#

Michael didn’t return the next day.

It unnerved Jon far more than he wanted to admit. Had he messed up? Well, yes, obviously—but how much? Was this an attempt at punishment—not that it _would_ have been punishment; not that he _needed_ to see Michael each and every day—or just Michael staying away from someone who had, somehow, upset it? If that was something he was capable of.

Impossible questions to answer. His brain, at least, knew how to distract him with more important, substantial concerns:

There was probably a new Archivist by now, and he couldn’t stop thinking about that fact.

He couldn’t just stroll into the Archives, casually sidle up to this new Archivist and tell them everything he wished he had known from the start. Conjuring up the image of the Archives had alone led to a miserable half hour of nausea, hurried pacing, rapid breathing until his hands were numb and his heart pounded in his ears.

Not that, then.

(Another day without Michael.)

The Magnus Institute’s website—what passed for one, anyway, sparse and equivocal about everything except how to have one’s statement taken—was impossible to navigate, and he knew wouldn’t have told him much anyway. Besides, if he did make direct contact, he had little doubt that it would end the same as all his other interactions. He could likely bewilder someone into quitting their job if he asked the right questions, but at what cost? And there would always be more new hires.

He needed something subtler. Indirect communication might stand a better chance, and certainly Jon needed something that could sneak past Elias—a tall order, but necessary if he was to warn this new Archivist. And he _had_ to warn them, help them resist the effects of the Eye from within the Archives. The past few days had turned that fleeting thought into a moral obligation.

Michael showed up at the end of day three—or, perhaps, the beginning of day four, however four in the morning counted.

Jon had just been moving to his bedroom when he heard the door creak open, and froze, not entirely sure if he had simply imagined it. Waited for Michael to say something, but after possibly an entire minute, he began to suspect it was waiting on him.

“Michael?”

“You do so love _names_ , don’t you?” it said. Its voice was as light and singsong as ever, which Jon was forced to take as a good sign. “But, I suppose, where would we be without the nomenclature? I do not believe even That Which Observes would know.” Then, as if flowing from the same conversational thread, Michael asked, "And how have _you_ been?”

It took Jon a few moments to realise it was his turn to speak. “Good—?”

“You sound uncertain.”

“I, er.” He didn’t have it in him to address its absence. “I’ve been thinking about the Magnus Institute,” he decided.

“Have you.”

Maybe not the smarter option, the way its voice turned dark. “It’s that,” Jon hurried, “I want to— _need_ to—find out who Elias hired to replace me, if he has yet, so I can warn them. Tell them everything _I_ should have been told.” Then, he felt the need to add, “That’s all.”

Michael paused, then hummed. “Oh, that _is_ an idea,” it said, the gravity in its voice gone as quickly as it had appeared. “To impair it further? How could I refuse?”

Jon wasn’t thinking of it as _impairing_ so much as _maybe-possibly-hopefully protecting_ , but whatever encouraged Michael to help. “I’m still not sure how, though,” he said. “I can’t go—”

“You can’t go there yourself,” Michael said, overlapping. “What are your plans, then?”

“Er.”

It began to laugh. “Aww,” it said pityingly. “Well—hmm. Let me consider, as I may have—” Its voice faded as it, presumably, entered its hallway and shut the door behind it, and just like that, Jon was again alone in his bedroom.

Like he was _left hanging_.

At least he couldn’t keep himself awake long enough to ruminate on whatever this feeling of disappointment was once his head hit the pillow.

Michael returned early the next day, before the caffeine had the chance to start working. Excitement plainly bubbled in its voice even from the word “Hello.”

“Your ‘plan’ to contact their new ‘Archivist’,” it giggled, like it was talking about a game. “There are some people for you to meet. Some of ours.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also! A very good fan playlist has been made for this AU by @iiterative on tumblr: <https://open.spotify.com/playlist/0EUX7llDl7TaztWLVchTFz?si=vZF7-pc1Q6CPPDFznj8IPQ> \-- go appreciate it.


	8. The Sunflower

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: misgendering (of Michael, specifically); also, *taps the sign that says this isn’t a happy relationship*

“The Sunflower,” Michael explained, “are a—hmm—collection of people who share a body. I cannot say I know who precisely we will be meeting.” A short giggle as it guided Jon through its door with a hand on his shoulder, like it was about to reveal to him a new car. The excitement was almost infectious, or maybe it was just the eagerness to _do something_ after so many days of ennui.

They stepped through to somewhere indoors. The air was stale with a dusky sandalwood scent that reminded Jon of so many New Age stores. Hardwood floor, and shortly after stepping inside, Michael steered Jon to the side, presumably around some table or another, before giving him some space, standing next to him where he could be the one to hold its arm.

It took a few moments to process that _indoors_ was not where he expected to be. “Wait, where—”

“What the _fuck_ are you doing in our house!?”

Jon jolted and pulled back, but Michael was practically a statue, unflappable and disconcertingly unmovable. “Zacharie!” it said cheerily. “It _is_ Zacharie, isn’t it?”

“Who the fuck—!?” A few seconds of pause, with the Sunflower exhaling in realisation and surprise. “Oh. So _you_ _’re_ Michael.”

“No,” Michael replied. “In a manner of speaking, though, yes. Please put the bat down.”

Jon flinched. An unpleasant reminder of the dangers he couldn’t see anymore.

There was a heavy thud as the Sunflower placed the bat down. “Alright,” they said, guarded. “Who’s your blind friend?”

“Jon,” Jon said. He considered apologising for their trespassing, but decided it wouldn’t mean much coming from him. “I work for the Spiral too.”

“’Work for,’” they said flatly. Not the right way to talk about the Spiral, then. “Would’ve had you figured for Dark, though, given the—nevermind.” A long, almost affected sigh. “So, what _are_ you doing here? It’s been a while since we’ve… interacted. ‘Michael.’”

There was a clear discomfort to how they referred to Michael, reminiscent of how Michael itself said the name. Like it didn’t quite fit—like there was something else they wanted to say instead, but couldn’t.

“Ah, it has, hasn’t it?” Michael said. “Though, since when did ‘whiles’ matter, right?”

“Right.” Dissatisfied?

They knew the Distortion before Michael Shelley.

The realisation made him stand very straight, swelling with questions: _What do you mean_ _‘interacted’? For how long?_ Maybe another avatar of the Spiral wouldn’t be affected by his powers, and he was immediately hoping that the Sunflower would look past their invasion and offer them a place to sit and chat. The curiosity ached, but he could tell himself that the stronger craving was for the simple act of _conversation_.

Possibly, conversation without Michael, because it was quick to speak up. “We have a job for you.”

“What—” There was a sudden, complete shift in the Sunflower’s voice. A light, airy but anxious laugh; an inflection with much more lilt covering an underlying nervousness. “Don’t mind Zach. You just, er, startled us. What sort of job—?”

The switch, admittedly, threw Jon for a moment. “Well,” he said, “we need someone to get into the Magnus Institute.”

There was a long pause. Long enough that Jon was just about to explain further when the Sunflower finally said, “Are you serious? Like, seriously serious? Why?”

“I’m—I _was_ their Archivist,” Jon said. “I need to know if there’s a new one. To let them know what’s happening. It’s a long story.”

“Oh. _Oh_. And that’d be why you don’t have—okay.” They began to pace with quick footsteps. “Intel. You want us to gather intel.”

“Or to communicate,” said Jon. “All they’d need is a message. A warning.”

They laughed with the same jittery energy that infused their words. “Sounds pretty Beholding, you know.”

It was like a jolt of electricity had run through Michael’s arm, too fast for Jon to even think about jerking his hand away. The pain, fortunately, only lasted for a moment before dissipating into a pins-and-needles numbness.

There must not have been anything visual to Michael’s reaction, or else the Sunflower didn’t care. “Why us?” they asked.

“What I was thinking,” Michael said, low and even, “is that one of you hop into the head of some employee and—” It trailed off, like it had gotten distracted, but came back moments later with “—watch. Just to start.”

Jon tilted his head towards Michael. “Hop—?”

“He didn’t tell you about us?” the Sunflower asked.

Another brief current of itching pain across Jon’s hand. It occurred to him to let go, but the tenseness in Michael’s arm convinced him that he wanted to keep track of its location, even if it meant more jolts or spikes.

Unknowing, the Sunflower continued, “Our—thing? Yeah, I guess you could say ‘thing’—is that we can jump into others’ minds. Freaks a lot of people out to think they’re not alone in their heads, for some reason.”

It was clearly someone different who added, low and gravelly and with an audible grin, “We could demonstrate, if you want.”

“ _No_ ,” Jon and Michael both said at the same time—Jon more concerned, holding his free hand up as if it would act as any kind of defence, while Michael’s word came as a sharp warning.

There was a lengthy pause. Jon imagined a stare-down. “Fine. Fine.” The Sunflower’s voice shifted back to Zacharie’s. “So, intel. Not our usual M.O. Can’t say I even know who’d be best for the job. Gotta ask, what’s the big deal about some Magnus employee, anyway?”

How much to explain? Having been, in a way, threatened had caused only a brief surge in anxiety. More persistent was that tug to just sit and talk, but he doubted either Michael or the Sunflower would let him prattle on about his employment history.

He eventually decided on, “It’s part of the Eye’s ritual.” Then, self-consciously, amended, “I’m pretty sure.”

The Sunflower clapped its hands together. “Oh! Okay, you sure know how to get us interested. So, revenge, then. Or—” and it was clear they were speaking towards Michael, as though an aside—”redemption.”

“Redemption?” asked Jon.

“I am not quite sure what you are talking about,” said Michael with a hint of wariness—an unnerving thing to hear in its voice. “And not in the pleasant way.”

The Sunflower laughed. “You know, Jon,” they said, overly cordial, “the Distortion and I—personally—we used to act together at times. Direct people towards it, or show up in people already inside it. You know, for that extra scare.”

Another painfully physical swell of questions. He opened his mouth—must’ve looked like dumb gaping—but before anything cohered into language that he could articulate, he was distracted by his hand grasping at open air. Michael had stepped forwards without even the feeling of it slipping out of his fingers.

There was a short, annoyed huff from the Sunflower. “I’m giving _context._ ”

“Unnecessarily,” replied Michael.

Nevertheless, the Sunflower turned their attention back towards Jon. “Do you know what happened?” they asked. “In Sannikov Land?”

“Er, yes, actually,” Jon said. “Michael told me.”

“Oh.” Said with the flat disappointment of someone who had been gearing up to tell a story. Disappointment that quickly transformed into a prickling resentment. “Good for you. _We_ had to figure it out from bits and pieces. It took _years_. Why portions of the Spiral suddenly disappeared. Why Gabe’s plans failed. That a Magnus employee had taken over the Distortion.”

Michael broke into laughter that, although intense and long enough that it was left gasping for breath, carried an uneasy nervousness that reminded Jon too much of how the old archival assistant had sounded on tape. It didn’t even echo. “Is _that_ how it’s being spoken about?”

“It’s how I’m speaking about it.”

“So, can you do it? Help us?” Jon rushed to ask, then held his breath. Considered just asking Michael that they leave, because the air was heavy with an uncomfortable tension, and he was quickly regretting the whole notion of warning the new Archivist, if this was Michael’s idea of “help.”

Some moments passed until, finally, the Sunflower said, “We’ll discuss it.”

“Good,” said Jon. “Good. Come on, let’s—”

“No.”

Jon winced at the stern steel wall of Michael’s voice. Swallowing the dread rising in his throat, Jon said, “It’s fine, really. It’s not an immediate—”

“No,” it repeated, as if Jon hadn’t even said anything. “This is not a request.”

“We will discuss it,” the Sunflower bit back. “You can’t expect to show up out of nowhere, give us some ridiculous task about _gathering information_ , and have _all_ of us immediately sign on board. With you in a form we’ve _never_ met!”

There was a pang of distress, even mourning, to their voice that, still, Jon couldn’t help but feel some empathy for. He had stepped into a longer history here—one he could hopefully draw out of the Sunflower someday, but everything in him was presently yelling at him to get out of an increasingly tense situation.

“’Form’ is troublesome. Misleading,” Michael said with a high tone that wavered, precarious, like a rock on a cliff. “Something I would expect _you_ to understand most.”

“Since when did you care about understanding?” the Sunflower scoffed. “Jon, has he always been like this?”

The sound of his name made him jump, and he stumbled a half-step backwards, feeling a lot like a target had just been placed on him. All he could think to say was, “What?”

“At your Institute, I mean. Was Michael Shell—”

#

A deafening crack, like thunder or a gunshot—nothing that parsed more coherently than _noise_ and _pain_. Gravity shifted, moving first sideways and then, for a moment, upside-down, and Jon would have toppled over if he was at all capable of moving, of doing anything except try to think through the onslaught of meaningless stimuli: steel wool; cold wet fog; piercing hypodermic needles; nails on chalkboard; the Sunflower’s screams, stifled not at all by Jon’s hands clapped over his ears—whenever that had happened, he wasn’t quite sure.

The reverberations lasted for seconds, or minutes, or only an instant, and left a buzzing, numbing quiet that Jon couldn’t place himself in—couldn’t quite figure out where his limbs were in relation to each other even once he was able to slowly, shakily, drop his hands down. He couldn’t even tell if he was still in the same room.

And then: Silence.

“Michael?”

Nothing.

“Michael, what—what happened?”

Still, nothing.

“Mi—”

“Stop saying that. Stop _saying_ that.”

There was an unmistakable sniffle. _Crying_. What the hell was he meant to do about that? Jon swallowed hard, had to do _something_. “You, er, deleted them, didn’t you?”

A hallow laugh. “’Delete’? Perhaps. Erased, wiped away—or, scattered. I thought, of anyone, they— _he_ —”

“Hey,” Jon said in a voice he hoped was soothing. The rambling at least let him find Michael knelt on the ground. He lowered himself as well, found its curved back, and gave it a small, awkward pat. Even consoling a human would have been difficult and anxiety-inducing—what was he meant to do here?

Especially when he could barely think through how loud his heart beat in his ears, how tight his chest was. He was terrified. Hard not to be, when some avatars were just obliterated in front of him, when _Michael was crying_. The air still resonated with strange echoes of _wrongness._ An aftertaste of battery acid.

So, he jumped when Michael twisted and grabbed his wrist—not tightly, but strong enough that Jon’s instinctual jerk away didn’t free him. And then his hand was being moved up, repositioned so Michael could press its face into his palm.

Human hands. A face with only the slightest vibrating metallic tingling that was constant in any physical contact with it. That was a good sign, right? Meant it was still in control, still a coherent form rather than an abstract cloud of anger and distress, or whatever happened when something like it completely lost control.

He carefully, self-consciously rubbed at Michael’s jaw, trying his best to chase after whatever script by which people comfort one another. Something like caressing. It responded encouragingly, leaning into his hand with a shaky exhale.

Then Jon opened his stupid mouth.

“You’re not Michael Shelley,” he said softly.

In an instant, its hold tightened into a painful vice around his wrist, a bear trap crunching down, sharp knives from what had been fingers. It yanked his hand away in a quick, harsh motion, twisting his elbow into an uncomfortable position that grew more painful as he was pulled upwards.

“Wait,” Jon stammered. “Wait, wait, shit, I’m sorry, I’m sorry—”

“Quiet.”

He was being walked forward in slow, careful steps, stumbling for every stride of Michael’s long legs. Despite its command, there were still whispered syllables coming out of his mouth, because maybe if he kept his mouth moving, he wouldn’t freeze up entirely. Small “wait”s and “no”s.

That changed when it released him with a sudden, sharp shove forward. He threw out his arms to keep from falling face-first into the ground, but his hands first met wall.

No.

A door.

Jon’s throat closed entirely. There was a hand at his back—almost too normal, except for a single finger that curled into the small of his back with the threat of a sharp point. It felt like it was possibly already cutting through the back of his sweater.

“Open it.”

Oh.

It shouldn’t have come as such a shock that Michael would one day kill him. It was a violent thing, gleefully stabbing him for little reason and even more gleefully carving out his eyes. Jon had thought _avatarship_ meant _protection_ , but had Michael ever promised him that? Maybe the cat had finally stopped playing and was going in for the kill. Because of the mouse’s dumb mouth.

Jon tried to think of it as fitting: It would finally fulfil its promise to him back in the wax museum. _Open it, and all this will be over_. Back then, the door had unexpectedly opened to the Archives, with Michael giving no further explanation than that it had changed its mind. Maybe, just maybe, it would change its mind now—but a small piercing twitch into his back told him he was taking too long.

“Okay,” he said, because he had to say _something_ , even if the word was followed by a small pained noise when the blade/claw/finger/something slid effortlessly into skin.

Jon had to grope for the doorknob across old and precariously splintered wood. Strangely warm, like it had been facing the sun, with a deeper vibrating energy that echoed how its hand felt across his back. Just an unassuming round doorknob. Did it bother him that there wasn’t more showy ritual to his death?

Michael remained silent.

Something in the turn of the doorknob hitched, required an extra bit of force, like an old mechanism in need of replacement or oil—or it might have been Jon’s own shaking hands, sweaty palms slipping across the brass. He was opening it far more slowly than necessary, he knew, but it waited. It wasn’t until the knob was turned completely and all he had to do was _push_ that Michael rotated the sharp finger in his back, pain that outweighed how small the incision must have been.

One last breath of outside air—though, not _really_ the outside: the herby smell of some stranger’s house. Used it to form another stupid, meaningless word, just to keep from leaving _silently_ , but still nothing better came than: “Okay.”

As he pushed the door open, Michael’s hand dropped from his back. He didn’t step forward; instead, the next thing he knew was the quiet click of the door closing behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to [dramatispersonae](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dramatispersonae/pseuds/dramatispersonae) for beta-ing this one! :D
> 
> Also, for those curious, [here's some more info about the Sunflower.](https://spiralise.tumblr.com/post/623749000242364416/some-more-notes-about-spiral-ocs-the-sunflower) Because I plotted them as just some bit part but wound up liking them a lot more, RIP (literally).


	9. Hallways

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Mild suicidal ideation, isolation/abandonment

Jon walked.

What else was there to do? He swept his cane in front of him in order to stave off the feeling that he was about to walk face-first into a wall, but after getting the sense of what angle the hallway curved (a constant, slight turn to the left that he forced himself not to map out), he never bumped up against any unexpected corners or doors. Helen Richardson’s statement suggested that there would be branching paths, but what did it matter? She had only been let out, apparently, for just long enough to recount her experiences before walking straight back into her doom. No reason, then, to feel for the turns and try to construct a blueprint that would have been headache-inducingly impossible even when he was sighted.

He was afraid.

Time was unclear here. Like a dream that might cover wide swathes of time in a blink of an eye, there was no real sense of _passage_ beyond an awareness that he had been sitting for a while and should probably start moving again, or that he had been walking for far too long and had lost the willpower to do anything but collapse against a wall.

All because he had tried to comfort Michael.

Or, really, all because he had gone to Michael with worries of an eminent world-ending Ritual. All because he had let the Magnus Institute settle so deep into him in the first place, had signed his humanity away at some point or another. Because he had wanted a career investigating the supernatural in order to explain and contextualise his childhood experiences with a book that had fallen into his path, essentially, by chance.

His thoughts travelled in spirals too, full of unnerving moments of _d_ _éjà vu,_ wherein he was unsure if he was coming up with new thoughts or somehow forgetting and returning to ruminate on issues he should have put aside. Helen’s statement—how much was there to think about it, really? He had already decided not to bother with feeling for any corners or exits, hadn’t he? Or maybe he hadn’t, and was only now making that decision.

He was _afraid_.

He had never learned what happened to those finally taken by the Distortion. By definition, it was something impossible to receive a statement on. A point of no return, as much as the End. So, with some sense of grim satisfaction, he tried to think of it as some final piece of new knowledge. Assuming it wasn’t just more of this, on and on, forever—a possibility that returned to him a number of times. Maybe he was dead already.

The walls often felt thin and hollow, like there was an opening just on the other side. Jon kept telling himself he’d try punching through at some point, but he couldn’t get past the feeling that it was a bad idea to attempt any physical damage. Things, he reminded himself, could _always_ be worse. Countless statements had proved that to him time and again.

Other details, however, changed nearly every time he had the mind to notice them: different textured carpets (though it was, he noted, always a carpet—as if the consistency meant anything); walls that were usually wallpapered, but at times were made of wood or, at one point, cheap stucco; air that might have been a hint too hot or just slightly too chilly, or most often, that uncomfortable, unclear space of both simultaneously.

It was always unambiguously stuffy and dusty, though—an unmistakable _inside_ -ness making it impossible for him to imagine being anywhere else. An odd, sticky feeling constantly buzzed through and around him, like deep bass being played kilometres away, that nevertheless reminded him of Michael’s touch. Claustrophobicly so: a constant sense of being _surrounded_ by it. Consumed by it. On the verge of fading into it.

At one point he had to ask out loud, “Michael?”

Nothing, just the soft way sound was swallowed up by carpet and endless hallway. He sighed. As if it would be that easy.

He collapsed against a wall.

#

He would be crying if he had tear ducts. Uncontrolled shaking breaths. Muscles in his face uncomfortably tight. The disgusting running in his nose.

What was so awful, though? Michael had kept to its promise: If this was dying, it was more pleasant than being skinned alive. Or eaten by bugs. Or trapped in the choking crushing Too-Close-I-Cannot-Breathe for all eternity.

This was just disorienting, not painful. Just isolating, not torturous. He should have been _thanking_ it, really.

Why was he even crying?

#

Footsteps?

Arrhythmic thuds. Like something heavy and many-jointed tip-toeing across carpet. Right behind him.

“Michael?”

Silence again.

#

Ear held against the wall, Jon heard tapping.

Tap-tap-tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap-tap-tap.

A pattern that repeated until he said, “Hello? Michael?” And then: nothing.

#

What was there for him on the outside, anyway? No friends—only conversations doomed to end in some sort of psychological harm. Nothing but an unnatural hunger compelling him to make others’ lives miserable. Nobody to miss him—at least, nobody he had spoken to in weeks and weeks.

In a way, all Michael had done was gotten rid of yet another source of terror in the world.

So, why was he crying?

#

Listless, he tapped out the pattern himself with his knuckles against the wall: S-O-S.

Not that there was anyone else listening except, probably, the hallway itself. If it was the sort of thing that could listen.

#

The worst was hearing laughter. Distant sounds that always seemed to echo in the exact rhythm of Jon’s footsteps, stopping when he did, making it impossible to tell if he was mishearing. Which was the point, he supposed.

Sometimes, no matter the direction he turned, he was moving _towards_ its source—towards his doom, towards some new layer of torment that Michael might have for him.

Sometimes he was moving away from it—away from Michael coming to interact with him, the only thing he wanted in those moments: just _interaction_.

Most often, he stood still until his next footstep didn’t echo.

#

Why had he tried to comfort Michael? The moment kept replaying in his mind: reaching in the direction of Michael’s sniffling, letting it take his hand and, sighing, press its face into him. Of all the dumb, thoughtless things that Jon had done in his life—mistakes that haunted him constantly through these halls— _that_ was probably the the stupidest.

Even if getting close to a temperamental monster who had just annihilated someone wasn’t so obviously dangerous, there was absolutely no reason for him to have _wanted_ to. He should have been content staying back, waiting and hoping for Michael’s volatile emotions to shift without drawing any attention to himself. It hadn’t been his business at all.

Sometimes, Jon could practically feel its too-human skin under his palm, no matter how much he rubbed his hand against his clothes.

#

He spent more and more time sitting with his back against a wall. At least, he _thought_ so—he _intended_ to, as walking felt like entertaining some pointless hope that he’d eventually run into a door. Except, he kept finding himself on his feet, unsure how long he had been walking, as if catching himself in the middle of a dream.

It felt more and more spiteful now to plant himself down, to stay seated when the hallways apparently wanted him moving. The only truly meaningful _action_ available to him anymore.

#

“Oh, Archivist, you’ll never find a door unless you keep moving.”

Jon was on his feet so fast that his head spun and he had to catch himself on the nearby wall, nearly knocking over some picture or mirror in the process. The voice had come from directly above him, so he was surprised to not collide with anything in his rush to get up. Michael began to laugh—an almost innocent amusement, nothing bitter or angry. Nothing like the Michael that had forced him through a door with a claw dug into his spine.

Of course, Jon was more than aware that the laughter didn’t mean he was safe. He pressed himself back against the wall, as if it offered any modicum of safety.

“Ah,” sighed Michael. “But, no. There is no need for any more of this.”

“What?”

“Your being here.” A short giggle. “Though, I hadn’t known you would fear it _quite_ so well.”

Something wasn’t quite clicking. Jon’s heart wasn’t slowing, and Michael was saying meaningless words at him. Noises before it brought down the weight of the entire Spiral onto Jon, finally obliterating him. It must have looked monstrous now: hands all wrong, twisted and bloated, smile—or smiles—too wide and with too many teeth.

He should have been recoiling.

He needed to touch it, though, to know that he wasn’t just talking to a hallucinated voice—which was a possibility here, wasn’t it? He carefully reached out, not expecting the sharp, painful twinge in his chest when his fingertips brushed against Michael’s sleeve, how his hand near-automatically grabbed the arm. Something stable and real—even if the sweater that Jon’s brain told him was wool still felt in some way as much _like carpet_ as _like Michael_.

Jon had barely needed to extend his arm; it stood far too close to him, practically in his personal space, even though its voice had sounded much farther away. After the jolt of hitting something where he expected empty air came a surprisingly strong impulse, like a breath-stealing crash of wind, to step forward, close the gap, fall into Michael and—what? He at least could block out that thought, though he still couldn’t fully control his breathing, fear and desperation paralysing his lungs.

Quietly, he asked, “Are you going to kill me?”

It laughed again—first stifled chuckling and then something louder and longer. It needed some time to breathe before speaking. “Oh, _Archivist_ ,” it said—affectionately? Was that the right word? “If I wanted you dead, I would have already killed you _long_ ago.”

That shouldn’t have been so reassuring.

Then there was something brushing through Jon’s hair, and he jolted, first from simple surprise and then from the realisation of what it was: claws-fingers-rocks-knives. Immediately, he imagined a claw machine clumsily crushing an overripe pear with miscalibrated force, and if Jon’s heart had at all slowed in the past few minutes, that progress was completely erased. For a moment, he was lightheaded, glad he had the wall to rest his weight against.

There was a soft ruffling motion, and then Michael withdrew its hand. "Oh,” it said, as if only now realising something. “You're _hungry_ , aren't you?"

Jon had to swallow in order to get his dry throat working again, though his brain took much longer to follow. “What?”

"It’s been—ah—two weeks or so? By _their_ linear calendar, of course."

Jon suspected it didn't really matter, that Michael could have said _months_ and he wouldn’t have felt any different. It wasn’t as though he had missed any prior engagements. Still, it was good to have _some_ idea of how long it had technically been.

“No,” he said. “No, I’m just—” _overwhelmeddizzyconfusedscared_ —“tired.” He ran a hand through his hair to pat it down, to make sure that Michael’s fingers hadn’t transformed it into some mess of unnatural, curling spirals, but mostly in order to brush away the lingering prickling numbness.

When Michael began to move, a flash of panic ran through him. Unnecessarily so; it seemed content to guide Jon forward. Like usual, like nothing had ever happened, like Jon hadn’t been trapped and convinced he was dying for, apparently, weeks. The strange rhythm and bounce of its steps made it hard to pretend he was being guided by something fully human, but he hardly had it in him to mind.

The sense of time restarting—of _life_ restarting, of not being locked up within his thoughts—was making him disoriented and impossibly tired. Like standing up after a long day extensively researching the same topic, daylight through the window quickly dimming, only to realise you never even had breakfast. _Hungry_.

Jon barely had the wherewithal to hate himself for asking, “Do you have someone for me?”


	10. Out

Stepping out the door, fatigue and hunger hit Jon like a concrete wall. He stumbled and for a moment needed to rest all his weight on Michael. It didn’t so much as twitch—an unnerving reminder of how physically powerful the monster was. But it was, in fact, physical. Not at all human—its touch was the smell of lavender and dry leather and static and other forms of messy synaesthesia that Jon didn’t bother trying to tease apart—but _present_.

It waited, presumably patiently, for Jon to again stand on his own two feet.

“I’m okay,” Jon said, but grew immediately embarrassed. Michael hadn’t asked.

They were outdoors. The sun warmed his skin. Birds sang. A cool breeze blew across his face. Things that moments ago Jon believed he’d never experience again. He was choking on some hard stone of emotion in his throat. Later. If he was going to break down about this, he could do it later. Not in front of Michael—something important to him for some reason.

They walked in silence while Jon hit his head—fortunately figuratively—against the wall of _what to say_. Words to make with his swollen tongue. Because he had to say something, right? This was something that had to be spoken about, handled, acknowledged—wasn’t it? But no, it apparently wasn’t. After all, what was he expecting—some sort of explanation? The explanation was this: Michael had gotten angry, and Jon had suffered for it.

“Steps,” was the first word to come from Michael in what felt like minutes but probably weren’t. Jon stumbled again from the change in pace when it slowed, and then from awkwardly feeling out the edge of the stairs. His cane might have helped, but it felt far too cognitively taxing to even go through the motions of taking it out, so he carefully climbed the four steps.

The sound of a doorbell and a few seconds of silence. Then, a door opening. A woman’s voice: “Oh! Hullo there.”

“Hello!” said Michael cheerily. There was an uncanny familiarity to it, like it was a recording that Jon had heard before. “We’re from the Magnus Institute!”

Jon started. “What—?” An electric jolt in Michael’s arm quickly quieted him.

“Oh!” said the woman. “Yes, yes, come in, please.” The raspy fragility in her voice suggested senior citizen. The sort of person who might have a lifetime of stories about the supernatural.

Jon swallowed. Then, he was being pulled forward by the solid force that was Michael, even as he uselessly tugged back. “Wait—” he said, a bit too loud at first, then in as low a whisper as he could manage while remaining emphatic and harsh, “ _Wait._ Don’t you have—can’t we find someone else?”

“Why?” Michael asked at normal volume.

“She’s—” Vulnerable? Undeserving? Old, and therefore off-limits by some supernatural honour code? Jon tried to swallow again, but there wasn’t much moisture in his mouth after all that time within the hallways. He shook his head, an admittance of defeat.

“It’s so nice you boys could come out all this way,” the woman was saying. “London is such a ways, isn’t it? Please sit down—”

Jon trusted Michael not to walk him into a wall as they stepped into a hot, stuffy room. It guided him onto a leather sofa that became instantly sticky and unpleasant on every square of exposed skin. Sitting was a relief—not just physically, as he all but collapsed onto it, but because nothing in the Distortion had been leather.

He really was outside. He really was alive. Wasn’t he?

His hand gripping Michael’s arm refused to relax, but fortunately, Michael sat down with him, saving him from any need let go. It was slightly more awkward to take the tea that the woman (”Gladys,” she said, and Jon flinched, knowing the name would haunt him like all the others) offered, but after some clumsy groping and a cup placed carefully into his free hand, he nearly drank the whole thing in one go.

Hearing Gladys sit down somewhere across from him was what interrupted him; he wasn’t here just for tea, and Jon was, horrifically, looking forward to it. It wasn’t just the hunger: Asking questions was interaction—was _existing_ —and he felt like he was slowly slipping down through the sofa’s cushions otherwise.

“So,” he said. “What leads you to reach out to the Institute?”

#

Jon was split.

Part of him clung to Gladys’s words with the painful attention that statements always pulled from him, even now. And it did feel like _pulling_ —he was being dragged down a twisting befuddling path by hooks firmly stuck through his skull. The normal swells and lulls of a well-paced story were jagged edges, rushed half-clarifications, and boring details, and he didn’t have the discretion to turn away for even a brief sarcastic mental aside. That sort of situation might have felt like escapism at some point, but right now, it felt like a head full of steel wool.

The other part of him was fixated on Michael. As if Gladys’s voice and the sofa— _leather_ , he reminded himself, _leather_ —weren’t evidence enough he was still alive, he kept testing its arm with light squeezes that it responded to with small, bizarre, momentarily distracting stimuli—colours, smells, textures. Not _comforting_ precisely, but the alternative would have been upsetting: a lack of response, a blank wall.

It was overwhelming, but that meant there was little room for abstract thought. Just the story of some family camping trip gone wrong, a campfire that couldn’t be put out demanding increasingly complex sacrifices; her, the only survivor. Details taking up too much residence in his head when he would have rather immediately discarded them, especially as they became jumbled, certain parties disappearing or reappearing with no sense of causality or linear time.

He was stealing, twisting, _distorting_ the last memories this woman had of her family. He would probably feel bad about that later.

There came a point when, all at once, Jon knew he had gotten all he could from her. Whatever chained his attention to her words loosened, a sudden slack and relief in every cell of Jon’s body. Gladys was just someone talking—”Oh dear, I don’t think I told you, on the second night—” and even though Jon would have preferred silence, it was a welcome respite to be able to just sit there, existing.

He was alive. That alone demanded some attention. Michael sat next to him, so still he wasn’t sure that it was breathing, a solid warm wall except for when he twitched his fingers against it and was met with an echoing rippling shimmering. Not angry, Jon had to tell himself. It wasn’t angry—not on the verge of throwing him back into maddening isolation to rot. But there was no way he was safe—no way he ever could be safe around it, which he had always known from their first meeting, so it shouldn’t have been bothering him now.

Another twitch, glass beads and sharp rocks.

Gladys went on for another few minutes. Finally, interrupting her, Jon sighed, “Okay. We’re done here.”

“Oh,” she said, lost, and Jon frowned. “I—I worry I haven’t been much of a help. This old brain, you know?” She sounded uncertain.

“It’s fine,” he said. “You’ve helped. Thank you.” And she had, of course. Well-rested, he stood up easily, as long as he could keep a hand on Michael, who followed wordlessly.

He still wasn’t sure of the long-term ramifications beyond the nightmares. Would Gladys sink into a more generalised dementia? It felt like an oddly intellectual question, detached and theoretical. The poor woman.

Without further prompting, Michael helped direct him towards what he was reasonably certain was _not_ the door they entered through. When it stopped, Jon waited a few moments before carefully reaching out to touch what he knew would be there—a door, oddly warm, buzzing with something beyond the real.

He froze.

The awful satiation of having fed gave him a refreshed energy to be anxious, a renewed blast of fear. Michael’s hand was on his spine again. A claw in the small of his back. A flat, whispered _“Open it”_ so vivid that it might have been Michael in the present. Was the plan now to periodically bring Jon out just long enough to feed before throwing him back into the hallways, alone, insane, forever?

It was Gladys who snapped him out of it, a small, “Excuse me, but—”

He didn’t want to agitate her further, so, taking an unnecessarily deep breath, he opened the door. All at once, the Spiral was engulfing him, swallowing him, consuming him—but Michael was still next to him. He was gripping its arm tight enough to no doubt hurt a human, but it didn’t give any indication of pain.

They took a few steps forward, then Michael opened a door in front of Jon. “Here you are,” it said cordially, as if Jon’s heart wasn’t pounding in his throat.

It was his home—obviously so, by the smell and the lack of that _presence_ of the Spiral, but Jon couldn’t convince himself of that truth until he had sufficiently run his hands across the shelves and tables and found it all familiar. The only change was the thinnest film of dust, evidence of some passage of time that Jon didn’t want to concern himself with, since it would mean trying to wrack his brain for how long it had _felt_.

Only after Jon had taken a few laps of the living room did a door creak closed.

“Michael?”

He was, again, alone.

#

_Alone_ was bad, it turned out, even outside of the Distortion’s hallways.

Jon sat on the couch in silence for minutes, maybe as long an hour—it didn’t matter, of course. Time was meaningless, even here. Eventually, some miraculous spark of motivation pulled him up and pushed him into the bedroom. After so much time spent conscious, he expected to fall asleep instantly, but found himself frustratingly conscious for far too long, trying to ignore the feeling of his legs walking endlessly.

He did, however, eventually wake up at a time his phone told him was shortly after 7:00 AM. Not having known when he had fallen asleep meant he could pretend it had been a decent night’s rest.

If he said Michael’s name out loud, would it come? The thought came to him three times throughout the course of the day, in between checking on the news and catching up on podcasts as if they were chores he had left undone for weeks. He managed to block himself from following up on those thoughts, to ask himself what he would want from Michael’s presence anyway.

It wasn’t until the next day that he heard from Michael again. Just as Jon stumbled sleepily out of his bedroom, its voice rang out from the middle of his living room. He sure had one hell of a startle response these days; he wasn’t even sure what it had said, just that he wasn’t alone in the room anymore and his heart was racing.

It certainly woke him up. “What?” Jon asked.

“I said, come here. Sit down.”

It spoke in a flat, deadly cadence that instantly made Jon lose feeling in his fingertips: What now? Did it change its mind? Was it going to kill him? ‘Here’ sounded like the couch, so Jon stepped carefully over, wanting to prepare for the worst but keenly aware there was no such thing as properly preparing for the Spiral.

He sat down. After a few moments, it sat down next to him, clambering on like something with too many limbs until its shifting rested it just barely touching Jon’s legs, where he could feel its shoes pulled up onto the couch, knees jutting straight upwards.

“How do you… _exist_ , Archivist?” it asked. It sounded rhetorical at first, but the following seconds of silence suggested otherwise.

Jon didn’t want to say anything unwise, and thought through every word for several moments before allowing them out of his mouth. “It’s not something I really _think_ about doing,” he said, speaking slowly to wait for a possible twitch or shift in the air. “It, er, kind of comes naturally.”

“Naturally,” Michael echoed flatly. “No, it doesn’t. Not anymore.” It sighed like something deflating. “You need to finish your book.”

“What book—?”

A heavy stack of thick papers dropped into Jon’s lap from somewhere above. The book Jon had been reading to Michael before, a novel Jon had a hard time recalling any specific details from. He couldn’t say he was very excited, and certainly not first thing in the morning. “Really?”

It hummed an affirmative.

Jon shifted through the pages, reaching his hands across the sheets to grasp at sentences that might have been familiar. It all felt so long ago. Finally, he admitted, “I don’t know where we were.”

“Doesn’t matter.”

Didn’t it? No, there was no way Michael had been anxiously waiting to hear more about the brave orphan, the spunky damsel, and so on—it was getting something else out of it. Distraction? Certainly, it had better things to do with its time, but something in Jon told him it was a bad idea to protest. He grabbed at the first chapter break he found and began to read.

Eventually, he stopped.

He hadn’t changed his mind as to the quality of the novel, but nevertheless, as if coming out of a particularly engrossing book, it was only then that he realised there was a heavy pressure on his side—Michael. It was undoubtedly resting _on_ him now, even as it was still curled up into itself, like a ball rolled up into his side.

At least Jon’s heart had had plenty of time to slow its pace, so it wasn’t panic he felt, just a slight confusion and—concern? It obviously wasn’t feeling well. Maybe the unease was only because a discontent Michael was _dangerous_ , but there was also a hint of that awful, incomprehensible empathy. He had taken the thing’s statement; he knew how deeply that dysphoria ran.

“Does it help?” Jon asked. “Listening to me read?”

“Maybe,” it said vaguely. “Listening, not existing. Setting aside.”

“Oh.” He paused. “I, er, can keep going, then—”

It gave a small, noncommittal noise. Not quite enough to convince Jon to return to the novel; he set it onto the ground.

They were silent for a few moments, Michael huddled against him. It could have almost been peaceful.

It unfurled then, unravelled, stretched further into Jon’s personal space with too many softly crackling joints like bubble wrap that rung in his ears. In the same motion, it reached around Jon’s head, claws-fingers sinking into his thick hair.

Jon froze.

“Do you regret leaving it, Archivist?”

Flushed warmth became a deep chill in one horrible instant. This was a test, and the wrong answer certainly meant a return to the hallways.

Did he regret leaving the Eye? No. Yes. Maybe? Every answer felt meaningless; it wasn’t something that Jon _could_ have either regretted or approved of. It was a series of events, one after another, most beyond the scope of his power. He might as well have regretted a windy day.

But no, that wasn’t right, was it? There was, undoubtedly, a moment, one in the chain of moments from discovering the secret of escaping to staring up at Michael’s spiralling hair haloing its grim smile, when he could arguably be said to have made a choice. He had come to Michael with a plan to escape. It had complied.

But did he _regret_ it?

“I—”

“It isn’t something I regret,” it said.

Why would it have been? That did, however, incline Jon to be positive about it. The Throat of Delusion couldn’t object to him lying, if it _was_ a lie. “No, I d—”

Suddenly there was a second hand gripping the sides of his face, keeping him from moving, and then Michael was kissing him.

Michael was _kissing him_. And he wasn’t pushing away.

He wasn’t pushing away? It was at first pure shock, paralysing astonishment at the warm-cold pricks of static and sickeningly sweet rotten honey taste on his lips. Then, something about it clicked, felt _okay, this was okay,_ and he relaxed.

At the slightest loosening of Jon’s mouth, Michael pushed in greedily with an inhumanely long and thin tongue, promptly curling _around_ Jon’s and against the roof of his mouth. Too much, too fast, and the surprise knocked the air out of Jon’s lungs, but Michael at least pulled back at the lightest push to let him breathe. He gasped down air more intensely than strictly necessary for the simple act of sitting on the couch.

Moments stretched out as Jon hesitated, too conscious of the feel of Michael’s breath on his face, still hovering so close—an odd, hitching, arrhythmic pattern, inhales and exhales out of sync.

There was a lost quality to its voice when it whispered, “I want…”

A few heavy, silent moments passed before Jon asked, “You want what?”

“I shouldn’t want.” It began to laugh softly.

Embarrassment, of all things? Jon’s tongue felt heavy and numb in his mouth, but he managed to say, “It’s okay—”

The laughter ended abruptly. “I should not _want_ , Archivist,” Michael hissed. The hand in Jon’s hair tightened, not painfully but uncomfortably. Worse was the deeper twisting spike of fear in his stomach. “ _Wanting_ is not an activity that I…” Faded into silence again as it loosened its grip. Then, so quietly that Jon wouldn’t have heard if Michael hadn’t pressed its forehead against his, it muttered, “It hurts.”

Jon swallowed. He began, “Well, _I_ want—uh—” but choked on any possible following words. He was lightheaded, unsure if it was a side-effect of the Spiral’s dizzying touch or a more mundane bewilderment at what was happening. He wanted to lie down.

However, Michael didn’t give him the opportunity to think through it further before its lips were on his again. It wasn’t bad. It should have felt worse, Jon knew. He shouldn’t have been shifting closer, turning more completely towards Michael, reaching a hand out towards it.

But before he could touch its face, too soon, all at once, Jon was winded with the force of Michael pushing upwards, springing off of his chest. Then, the next thing he could process was the headache-inducing slam of a door.

Dazed, Jon sat for minutes in silence that slowly became more expectant, like he might hear the creaking door indicating Michael’s return at any moment. Nothing came. When he finally moved, his chest began to sting in surprisingly sharp pain. Four long claw marks ran the entire length of his sternum, shredding his shirt—none particularly deep into skin, but he had sat long enough that his fingers came away from the wounds slick. It at least gave Jon a reason to shakily get to his feet and stumble to the bathroom to wipe away the blood.


	11. Words

What was Jon meant to do after that? What was anyone supposed to do after _that_?

Apparently: Take a shower, unsure whether to run it too hot or too cold. Mutter disapprovingly over the ruined shirt and, after a protracted mental struggle over the uses of old fabric, toss it. Brush teeth, telling himself that it wasn’t in order to scrub out the odd impossible tastes still clinging to his tongue.

Jon was, to his delight, stunningly tired. Sleeping meant not thinking about this. Sleeping meant—

#

—darkness and choking and violence and fear.

The odd—but familiar—sensation of being watched.

#

In the blissfully calm space between sleeping and waking—no more screams, no more crying—Jon could almost believe it had all been a dream. Its tongue. Its claws. Wanted it to be a dream? There would be fewer complications that way. Nothing but the manageable shame of a confused subconscious, something to shove into the deeper recesses of his mind, to be perhaps revived in moments when he needed something to feel embarrassed by, but otherwise inconsequential.

But it wasn’t a dream. Michael had kissed him. He didn’t even have the privilege to say it had been awful; he had _kissed Michael back_. That meant something, and counter to every curious bone in Jon’s body, he didn’t want to know what that said about him.

He managed to keep his mind mercifully blank when going through what he pretended to be necessary morning chores. Brush teeth. Another shower, just because. The claw marks across his chest had already healed. Hopefully there might have remained something solely visible, but Jon doubted it: Tracing his fingers across his chest didn’t reveal even the slightest bump beyond those scars already familiar by now. It was as if nothing had happened (but it had, _it had_ ).

After slowly, finally, chewing his way through some bland pieces of toast, Jon sat, waiting. It took some moments before he realised, ridiculously, that he was waiting for Michael. It must have wanted to follow up with Jon one way or another, right? To think about hearing from it again terrified Jon—made his heart race, his throat close—but it would have to return _eventually_ , right? Better to get whatever backlash over with—and Jon did think of it that way: _backlash._

Something _wrong_ had happened. Some relationship was ruined, somehow. He wasn’t entirely sure of the details, but Michael would probably gladly demonstrate any negative outcomes once it arrived.

Nothing and nobody came.

Jon steeled himself for the obvious next step. Carefully enunciating each sound as if it were some sort of password, he asked the air, “Michael?”

The world seemed to take a breath. And then—

Silence.

As anxious as he had been, he only grew more anxious upon realising that he didn’t have another plan of action beyond steeping in his own doubts. Maybe Jon was meant to read _this_ as its reaction: Avoidance. Solitude.

Rejection?

Jon stood up. He needed to be outside. He needed to be doing _anything else_.

#

For the next week, Jon fortunately managed to avoid endlessly ruminating on Michael. Unfortunately, he largely did this by thinking about Michael Shelley.

Of course Jon had been curious about the man from the instant he heard that nervous voice stammering and laughing from an old cassette player. The concern then had been with an ambiguously aligned monster that was every bit as happy to stab Jon through the shoulder as to abstrusely explain how to avoid a horrific worm-related death. Now, that curiosity took on a new edge.

The Sunflower had suggested some of Michael’s current behaviour could be traced to the old archival assistant. They had promptly died for it. But if there was any way to explain why the Distortion, the Throat of Delusion and Spiral incarnate, would lean into him on the couch, would hold his face, would…

And then go silent, avoid him, for days.

Jon needed to find out _something_. Or maybe it was just a distraction, something to do, to tab through old graduation records, an obituary of a 92-year-old, sites advertising the personal information of Michael Shelleys across the globe—anything that came up from hours of repetitive searching. Any piece of writing might have elucidated something about the man’s personality, what might have been twisted and warped into the current form of the Distortion. Even a family history might have pointed towards life experiences now presumably remembered—unwittingly—by the creature.

Maybe the Eye hadn’t entirely left him—or him, the Eye. As if knowledge, or the mistaken impression of it, would help. Still, The Eye would know about Michael Shelley. The Eye _knew_ Michael Shelley. There remained possibly countless recordings of the doomed man stowed away in those Archives. Any time he interrupted Gertrude’s work—which, judging by her curt responses, must have been quite routine.

Theoretically, those tapes were gathering dust in cramped, dimly-lit corridors of endless filing cabinets and boxes.

Theoretically, someone could sneak into those corridors through a back entrance and grab as many tapes as possible from the regions corresponding to Gertrude’s years.

It wasn’t any sort of serious plan at first. A series of hypotheticals, something to entertain his thoughts away from what had _actually_ happened and the fact that he wouldn’t mind it happening again. Jon would come in through a back door, an old emergency escape he knew to be improperly alarmed. He wouldn’t be able to be choosy, of course, but if he made it out with enough tapes, there would have to be _some_ brief moments of Michael Shelley’s nervous laughter to analyse. To compare with the echoing, impossible laughter from the Distortion.

But days of isolation was solidifying that into something increasingly, frighteningly _possible_. Or maybe that was just one of the strange directions his tired, _hungry_ mind was wandering in. Salivating at the thought of knowledge, even if that was no longer what sustained him.

Despite the dangers, it made sense to try. Before Jon could figure out how he felt about Michael, he decided, he first needed to know more about _who it had been_.

#

In that bizarre, dream logic way, Jon knew simultaneously that he had been sitting with his feet dangling over the ledge of a giant crater, observing tragedies play themselves out below, for a significant period of time, and also that there was something new sitting next to him.

He glanced over.

Michael was like a figure dancing in and out of his blindspot—partially invisible, largely constructed and imaginary. And maybe it was, in a more literal sense, Jon's blindspot, as if his ability to see in his dreams was nevertheless restricted to the statements he’d received. Or maybe it was because dreams were closer to the Spiral's domain, and Michael, closer to how it wanted to be perceived, wrong and disjointed. Which was more correct was a question too abstract or tangential for Jon to care about right now.

Mostly, he felt relieved.

It was looking down while blasts of hot air blew upwards from the cliffs, brushing its hair back in patterns that seemed nevertheless unlikely. Golden strands flared up behind it, like a halo, or like wings.

There was really only one question to ask.

“Why did you do that?”

Michael turned to appraise Jon with a perfectly blank face that was far too easy to read as antagonistic. Within moments, though, its face cracked into a few too many laughing smiles.

“Are you asking _me_ , Archivist?” it asked over the echoes of another mouth’s laughter. “I should be asking _you_.”

"What—?"

"Not that I am, ah, _complaining_." It reached out, and something in its twisting fractal arm or arms threw off Jon's depth perception, meaning he didn't jerk back in time to avoid it softly brushing his bangs to the side.

Jon's mouth felt dry, and not just because of the heat. "What do you mean 'ask me'? _You're_ the one who—"

Michael cut him off with a short hum. Some imitation of thoughtfulness, though combined with something _sharp_ in its eyes, Jon interpreted it as closer to a threat. Accordingly, he wasn't keen on saying anything, and an unclear but excessive amount of time passed before Michael turned its attention towards the burning horizon and replied, "Causes. Reasons. Not the sorts of things that should concern us."

That didn't sit well with Jon, but the dreamy fog leached any more specific complaints from him. He also turned to gaze down at the landscape. Far below, a fleshy living train of gore and viscera tore into victims— _Basira_ among them, immediately becoming the centre of Jon’s attention—crushing their still-living forms between teeth, until all at once, it was set aflame, becoming a roasting—

"To be clear," said Michael, "to the extent that I am able to—I was simply _reacting_."

It was again staring at Jon, its eyes swirling with headache-inducing colours and emotions. This felt like another test, but one he couldn't think through all the consequences of, not with part of him still attending to the burning suffering souls below, not with his thoughts flattened by dream logic, struggling to imagine beyond what was immediately around them. He didn’t feel able to think without inadvertently saying something out loud.

"Reacting to what?" Jon finally said with a hint of frustration he immediately regretted.

"You," it said flatly. "You and your—touching. Do not act like I cannot _tell_ , Archivist."

Jon opened his mouth, then closed it.

It wouldn’t have been the first time he had, somehow, been accidentally flirting with someone; he’d been told as much throughout grade school. Apparently, he gave off signals in a language inaudible to him but loud and clear to everyone else, and Jon’s peers had been more than eager to let him know about his transgressions. Back then, it was a reason for constant teasing, innocent and less so. Now, it was more severe: a possibly ruined relationship with the only one, it seemed, who Jon could have any safe conversation with.

Jon only barely heard Michael mutter, as if to itself, “Not that I mind.”

The world was tilting ever so slightly. “So—what? You’re—we’re—” _together_? Jon wasn’t sure if he had said the last word aloud. Hoped he hadn’t. Even in a dream, that would make things too solid.

Michael began to laugh again, and Jon realised he must have been speaking out loud. This time, though, something about it carried an edge of nervous energy—an edge that dug into Jon’s head with each breath, like daggers.

“Words,” it said, vaguely. “Words, words.”

That was it, then? The end of the discussion? Maybe for the better—Jon didn’t like this semi-lucidity, these blurred lines between thinking and speaking. There was still that relief, though: Michael was talking with him again. Whatever this was, it wasn’t _rejection_.

“Okay,” was all he could think to say.

"Okay," Michael echoed cheerily. Too quickly, with movements still too erratic and odd for Jon to adequately predict, it leaned over and kissed him briefly, softly. In the next moment, it was walking away towards a door standing freely on the cliffside, and before Jon could stumble through a surprised reply, it was gone.

He woke with numb static prickling his lips.


	12. Embers

Jon would have rather been asleep, three in the afternoon somehow parsing to his body as three in the morning. Not the best feeling when preparing to confront one of the more immediately dangerous avatars he had the misfortune of having met.

His hand pulsed with pain thinking about it.

But after the confusing dream—which _had_ , clearly, been a dream, but Jon couldn’t quite convince himself to write it off as meaningless—Michael hadn’t returned. It had been three long days while he, still isolated, did nothing but grow increasingly suspicious of the gaps in search results. 2009 was long ago, but not so long that there could have been _no_ internet presence, even if Michael Shelley must have been over 40 by then. But he had nothing.

Maybe the Spiral was disguising the information somehow. Or maybe it was nothing but the way his head felt constantly foggy, frazzled, frayed wires, nerves jumping at the slightest possible association. A deep, pervasive fatigue that demanded his attention every moment he couldn’t distract himself with pointless searching. Something he kept trying to pacify by saying that Michael would have to return _eventually_.

But even that sat wrongly with Jon. He was, after all, waiting to be taken to another human victim. Hardly the sort of thing to be _proactive_ about.

But he still had Jude Perry’s phone number.

It had worked when he was with the Eye. Why wouldn’t the Spiral mind feeding on the fears of other avatars? Someone who deserved it.

So, he was now slowly willing himself towards the café where they had first met. A familiar, neutral ground. Jon hadn’t told her of his disability, hadn’t wanted to give her time to plot what to do with a blind ex-Archivist. He figured that Jude would nevertheless make her presence known as soon as he got close.

A sudden, derisive bark of laughter from the table immediately to Jon’s left proved him right. “Holy _shit._ ” Jude was as cringingly loud as ever. “When you told me you quit, I didn’t _believe_ you. And I was _so_ looking forward to another round of screwing around with Elias’s Archivist, too.” She didn’t sound too beat up about it.

“Well, I found a way out,” Jon said. He didn’t trust Jude to help him navigate—not that she was jumping to his assistance in the first place—so it was an awkward shuffle to find the exact table she was seated at, feel for a chair, and sit down. Sitting, at least, felt nice—less energy needed, even if he was far from relaxed. He folded up his cane but kept it in his hands, under the table, as if he could brandish it at any moment. Or maybe it was just to grasp in white-knuckled anxiety.

“No shit?” said Jude. “That simple, huh? No braille signage at the Magnus Institute, I guess.”

Jon’s first impulse was to, of all things, _defend_ the Institute. He kept his mouth shut.

“Didn’t even know that was _possible_ ,” Jude added after a sip of some drink. “Guess that’s what happens when your god is so obsessed with a single body part. Couldn’t do that with any of _us_.” Like it was a competition. “So you’re, what, normal now? Human?”

Here came the lie this entire meeting hinged on. “Right,” Jon said—maybe a bit too quickly, trying to preclude any suspicion-raising hesitation or vulnerable lethargy. “It, er, seems that way.”

“Alright. Well, if you’re not here to Behold anything, what we doing here? Because right now, it seems to me like I’m sitting across the table from an ordinary, _defenceless_ human.”

“I have questions—” Jon heard Jude scoff. “Normal questions.” He had prepared a script for this, had repeated it endlessly in his head on the way over, but the details were now slipping through his fingers in the face of hunger, Jude’s unsubtle threats, and a nonexistent sleep schedule. Start with something not quite a question, but questioning: “I’m just curious if you’ve heard anything from the Magnus Institute about—well, any changes in their activities.”

“What makes you think the rest of us care about what goes on in there? Take out your eyes and you’re still as egotistical as the rest of them.”

Jon hadn’t expected a real answer, but Jude’s flippancy was nevertheless frustrating—especially when the non-answer didn’t register in his bones as anything satisfying. “That’s not an answer,” he huffed. “ _Have_ you heard anything?”

Jude was silent for a few moments. She must have sensed something. In his frustration, he had put too much force into the question, betraying his continued preternatural abilities and the fact that this was, in many respects, a trap.

Seconds passed before the silence was broken by Jude’s voice, smile shining through her words. “Can’t make me answer your questions anymore, can you?”

Jon hadn’t actually been sure if that particular aspect of his powers had remained. Good to know. “I suppose not,” he said, putting on a smile that hopefully looked sincere enough.

“I’m feeling nice today,” she said. “Yes, I’ve heard things.”

Jon found himself leaning forward slightly. He knew better than to expect the _truth_ , but maybe if it was still early enough in the conversation… “What sort of things?”

There was also a feeling like the tug at the end of a fishing line. An urging forward. The first hint of a breeze after so long locked away. The only thing that his thoughts could concretely focus on.

He didn’t mind turning that all on Jude.

“Chaos,” she answered, sounding more than a little pleased about it. “I… can’t remember the details.” Another tug.

Jon tried to seem bored. Easy to do with a sudden, unfeigned yawn. “I know—I know there was chaos,” he said. “I’m looking for—” _nutriment_ was the only word to come to mind for a few awful seconds, his tired brain offering up only useless pedantisms—“news.”

“Something about some Hunters,” she said, “I heard.” She hummed thoughtfully. “Yes—a group of them, wasn’t it? A whole pack.”

There were patterns in how people responded to Jon, he had noticed. Some became overtly, obviously confused and dazed, undermining their own story as they spoke and hesitantly stumbled over even what words to use. Others forged ahead, every sentence as confident as the last while describing timelines that made no sense or the same series of events again and again, going nowhere, until finally the strangeness of their descriptions eventually hit them.

It didn’t surprise Jon that Jude would fall under the latter. She described violence and chaos, seemingly unaware of how much she was repeating herself, starting her story several times with a quick “Wait, before that, I also heard—”, or how much she was clearly, patently making up. For a few minutes, she had somehow invented an unnamed avatar of the Buried working first alongside and then against the Hunters before being dropped from the narrative entirely.

Hopefully, she was also not aware of the contentment on Jon’s face. He tried to hide it, look serious and solemn and more than a little concerned; in actuality, it felt like being able to breathe again. _Strange_ , he thought, _that this should feel satisfying_. He wasn’t getting anything out of it, not really, not the same way that every new story under the Eye had inched him closer to something like _understanding._ He wouldn’t be able to follow up on anything Jude was saying. Useless nonsense.

Maybe that was a perk in itself. That supernatural sense kept him hanging to her every word (thankfully—otherwise, Jon might have dozed off), but once he had heard it, _digested_ it somehow, he could let it go.

Still, when Jude proudly announced, “And then the whole place burned down!” a chill ran down Jon’s spine, and he had to remind himself that it wasn’t the truth. He would have known.

“So,” Jude said with a dramatic, conclusive sigh. “Guess it’s good that you got out when you did, right?”

“I suppose so.” Jon tried to hold a solemn, serious frown, even as his mind began to wander again. _Statement ends, I guess._

“You ask me, though,” Jude went on, “I’m not sure how able any of _us_ —” she said the word as though it deserved to be capitalised—”are to leave what we’re called to. Maybe it really is just that easy to leave the Eye, but don’t be surprised if you wind up right back inside the Institute’s walls, though. They—”

All at once, the certainty dropped from Jude’s voice, like a hand dropping limply to the side. The corner of Jon’s lip twitched upwards at the wave of _rightness_ in that. Was this retribution? Probably.

“No, no, wait,” said Jude. “I _just_ said it had burned down. It _did_. But…”

That was Jon’s signal to leave. It was a decision that came a second too late. Jon had scarcely moved to stand, a curt goodbye on his lips, when there was the awful scrape of metal patio chair against concrete and the bang of hands hitting the table hard, which jerked violently enough that Jon, surprised, stumbled back into his seat.

“ _You_ ,” Jude growled. “You—you goddamn— _shit_. What are you trying to pull?”

The ridiculous first image Jon had was that of the avatar of Desolation breathing fire down on him. Was that something they could do? Jon flinched back, ineffectually ducked away, and—

Instead of fire came a word muttered under her breath: “Fuck.”

Spoken with fear.

Within a few moments, her voice turned once more aggressive. “Spiral?” she hissed. “You’re with the fucking _Spiral_? How the hell did you—How fucking crazy do you have to be to—” She gave a pitiless laugh, likely recognising the potential joke. “Fine— _fine._ ” Then, she was no longer talking to Jon. “I didn’t touch him, alright? I didn’t touch him. I’m _leaving_.”

First, there was the sound of Jude’s hurried footsteps away. Then, from somewhere behind Jon came a second set of footsteps—slow, deliberate, and heavy. They passed behind him, then paced around the table, before something sat where Jude had been.

Jon wished he could see its face in order to get some sense of what it was feeling, how to respond. Assuming it was annoyed in some way seemed like the safest option.

“Erm,” he said meekly. “Thanks. Thanks for that.”

“Why,” Michael said in a flat tone that made Jon wince, “were you speaking with one of the Absolute Devastation?”

“I was—er—” Jon let out a small cough—”feeding?”

There was a moment’s pause. “Oh!” it exclaimed, full of emotion once more. “Ah, yes, I can sense…” It giggled, leaving Jon’s ears ringing. “How unlucky that you would come across another so connected to the Fears—”

“I sought her out,” Jon corrected. “On purpose.”

“Oh?”

“I wanted someone—not human.” He was fidgeting with his cane, a soft clacking as two pieces snapped together then were pulled apart. There had been a dream, hadn’t there? Bleached with the passage of time, but returning to Jon in more conclusive chunks as he thought through it: Equivocation about why it had kissed him, why _he_ had kissed _it_. Another peck on the lips. _Together?_

Jon’s face felt hot.

“Why?” asked Michael.

Debating morality with the Throat of Delusion was the last thing that Jon wanted to do. He wasn’t sure what the first was.

“You’ve been gone,” Jon said, hoping it wouldn’t notice or mind the shift in subject.

“I have been…” It drew out every sound. _Stalling_. “Busy.”

“Have you?”

All at once, the hair on Jon’s arms and neck stood straight, like a strong magnetic field had passed over him. Then, silence. That had been reply enough for Michael, apparently.

“Well,” Jon said, speaking slowly, carefully. “I wish you would give me some warning next time.”

“Next time,” it echoed. “Next time…?”

Jon sighed, sunk slightly in his chair, and brought a hand up to rub at his forehead. “Next time you disappear,” he explained. “Though warning me next time you kiss me would _also_ be nice.”

“So there _will_ be a next time.”

“I—er—I guess—? I suppose, I mean—”

It interrupted whatever Jon’s mouth was trying to flounder around with soft laughter. “You have already told me,” said Michael. “We are ‘together.’”

There was a moment of panicked confusion before Jon remembered, right, the dream. He wasn’t too pleased with the idea of Michael holding him to his words from that half-remembered, semi-lucid state. What made the most sense, then, was to redo it on his own, _real_ terms.

Jon cleared his throat.

“I,” he said, “ _do_ like being around you.” Or was that only compared to the alternative? No, it was more than that. “You make me feel… protected.” Not _safe—_ of course not; he wasn’t _that_ deluded—but it probably wasn’t solely because of the calmness of having fed that he was no longer keeping an ear out for possible approaching danger. Since recognising that Michael wasn’t angry with him, he had been _relaxed_. Flushed, but relaxed.

The silence after he spoke was nevertheless unnerving.

“I’m gla—” it began quietly, but stopped, then corrected itself, more impassively, “It is good that you feel that way about your patron.”

“I’m not talking about being your avatar,” Jon protested, frowning. “It’s—I’m saying we’re—” He had no right being this flustered; how _old_ was he? “I’m talking about being _boyfriends_.”

Michael promptly broke into a fit of poorly stifled giggling. Nothing mocking, but rather a strangely contagious lightness. “Ah,” it said, and Jon allowed himself to think of it as _fondly_. “Oh, I would not—ah— _complain_.”

This was not a conversation he was experienced with. His time with Georgie felt like a blur: When had hanging out together become dates, become _a relationship_ , become constant fussing and arguments that seemed so ridiculous in hindsight? There had been a handful of others, too, all beginning in some strange swirl of interactions and enjoyable affection, never by his own initiative, all devolving into some degree of snappishness and frustration at Jon’s annoying habits.

And already this conversation was feeling like a blur. When had being around Michael become—this? _Now_ , he told himself. _This is happening now._ But it really wasn't: Memories of the taste of its mouth suggested otherwise. And fatigue was putting him at an even farther distance from himself.

He again wished he could see its expression, though he suspected that wouldn’t have helped. Smiling, staring blankly—what would that have changed?

“Boyfriends,” he muttered under his breath. If he said it enough, he’d get used to it, probably. He then frowned. “You—er—I mean, is that okay? Calling you my—” he briefly choked on the word—“ _boy_ friend?”

The range of responses in Jon’s body—a sudden chill, the sour smell of vinegar—was probably not completely endogenous. After a pause, Michael said, unenthused, “If you are asking about gender, it may be simplest to introduce me as your—” did Jon sense a pause in its speech, too?—“boyfriend. Though, it is ultimately your decision.”

Introduce to who? That again made Jon’s breath hitch, this time with the awareness of being in public, seated outside a café which neither of them had technically ordered from. There might have been stares. Jon wouldn’t know.

But then again, would that have mattered, either? _Protected_. Jon leaned back in his chair.

“So—that’s it?” asked Jon. “We’re—”

“You,” Michael said pointedly, but pleasantly, “belong to the Spiral. Whatever form that takes is not a concern of mine.”

 _And you are lying,_ thought Jon. Its alternations between stoic flatness and outright giddiness—those weren’t the actions of _not caring_. But, of course it was lying. He had no right to be put off when the Distortion _lied_. Besides, there was something almost sympathetic behind the lie: Michael, crying into his hand, upset with its very existence. It wasn’t the sort of thing for which a relationship— _being_ a boyfriend—could come naturally. _I should not want, Archivist_. Incomprehensible, but understandable.

Telling himself not to expect anything, Jon slowly stretched his hand out onto the table. Something came to rest over it: thick leather, sharp rocks.

#

They sat like that for at least a minute before Jon realised that he would have to be the one to initiate any movement.

He pulled back in order to cover a yawn. “Home,” he mumbled. “I want to go home.”

Michael held his hand as it navigated him. It was an odd hand to hold, not least because Michael kept fidgeting, first intertwining their fingers together, then pulling back in order to clasp around Jon’s hand. Like it couldn’t decide. Its fingers, at least, weren’t the long, disjointed claws that Jon might have expected; other than the odd texture, they felt largely human.

Jon wondered what Michael Shelley had thought about holding hands. Wondered how he himself felt.

They didn’t walk far before Michael stopped. “In front of you,” it announced cordially.

Jon reached out—today, the doorknob was an ornate, detailed thing, covered in thin spiralling patterns, probably glass—and turned.

It stuck. Locked.

Another ridiculous thing on top of an already ridiculous day. Jon let out a small, breathy laugh.

“What?” asked Michael.

“It’s, er—it’s locked.”

“No it’s not,” Michael promptly said. It giggled with an unnerving edge. “It can’t be.”

Jon tried again briefly, but he knew what a solidly locked door felt like. He stepped back with a shrug and a frown, letting go of Michael’s hand as it moved in front of him.

Michael was muttering to itself—”No, no, hold on—” as it worked at the doorknob and the pit in Jon’s stomach grew.

“Michael, what—”

What followed were two loud thunks of a shoulder slamming against a door, each accompanied by a soft grunt by Michael. A silence, during which Jon could only hear the blood in his ears. He was frozen, conscious only then that he was not just confused but _afraid_. This was something bad.

On the third thud, something gave way, and there was the familiar creak of the door finally opening, strained by whatever force Michael was exerting on it.

“What the _hell_?”

“It’s nothing,” Michael replied too quickly. Its shaking voice and laboured breathing betrayed the lie. It sounded as though it had just been sprinting. “N-n-nothing. It’s open. It’s—I’m open. Let’s go.”

It gripped his hand—not painfully, but noticeably tighter than before. Jon’s first impulse was to refuse, to demand an explanation. But it sounded upset—a tone of voice that echoed like empty, lonely corridors and the unending certainty that he would die in the Distortion. He could ask later, he told himself, when it was calmer, though he wasn’t quite sure whether he believed he would.

He found himself returning Michael’s tight grip. It didn’t move until Jon stepped through the doorway first.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- End of Part Two -
> 
> :3c


	13. Routine

Jon was asleep the moment his head hit the pillow.

Then, he was awake.

There was hardly any sense of the passage of time aside from a new wave of energy. Better than he’d felt in quite a while, in fact: practically _rested_. He hadn’t realised his mattress could be so comfortable, how soft the sheets could be. The blankets were the right amount of weight and warmth—though he couldn’t remember having gotten under them.

There was something else in his bed.

It hadn’t been touching him, wasn’t under the blankets—just a weight tilting the mattress towards the other side of the bed. It sent a flood of panic through him and he jolted up, threw his arms out in order to shove whatever it was away. The form refused to resolve into anything solid, anything sensible to push from, and it was only in that realisation that Jon processed what it was.

 _“Christ_ ,” he hissed, “Christ, Michael. It’s just you.”

“Yes?” It didn’t sound the least bit apologetic or even unnerved. If anything, there was a hint of satisfaction to its voice, as if it had pulled off a clever prank, though Jon couldn’t entirely tell over the post-startle light-headedness and the heartbeat pounding in his ears.

Having so quickly collapsed at least meant he hadn’t changed, meant he was still wearing a shirt. Tried not to think about why _that_ was where his mind first went. He pushed himself into a sit, pulling his knees up and away from what was currently, he supposed, Michael’s side of the bed.

“Christ.” One last swear, for good measure. “Did you just _sleep_ —?” Jon stopped himself and shook his head.

“I don’t sleep.”

“No,” he sighed, muttering more to himself than to it. “No, of course you don’t.” The adrenaline was steadily fading from his system. He was sitting on his bed with Michael. With his boyfriend.

There was a twinge of guilt at that, on reflection. Why was he reacting so strongly to _his boyfriend_ laying next to him? He would have apologised for the outburst, had Michael been decent enough to seem offended or even concerned. Instead, its nonresponse gave Jon the sense that he was making a big deal out of nothing. As if waking up in a rush of exaggerated panic because you didn’t expect your new boyfriend to crawl into bed next to you was perfectly normal for the Distortion.

As if _boyfriend_ was normal for the Distortion.

The bed was no longer comfortable. Jon got to his feet, then hesitated. Michael hadn’t made any indication that it was leaving. That meant he had a guest of sorts to entertain—a horrifying ordeal at the best of times, and here he was without so much as a plan.

He could feel—or at least _imagined_ he could feel—its eyes on him: a prickling at the back of his neck, an unbearable self-consciousness in every motion as he stepped towards the closet. He needed to change, for starters. He began to rummage through his clothes, not truly able to focus on identifying what shirts he was touching.

“You are worried about me watching,” Michael stated.

Jon froze. “Er,” he said. “I mean—I suppose? It’s just that—we haven’t—”

“I would rather you not be. It tastes unpleasant.”

“Tastes?” The confusion lasted only a moment. “You mean, my fear does.”

“Correct.”

An uneasiness that no doubt also tasted of the Eye: It could tell? Maybe it wasn't precisely mindreading, but it came close. No more privacy in his own head—in his emotions. And Michael had opinions. _Tastes_. Entirely understandably; Jon was far from begrudging Michael for that. He himself wished he wasn't still caught up in something so _Beholding_. But it wasn't as if he could force himself out of that discomfort. Even in previous relationships, he had been slow to settle into that easy space where he could act without a shell of self-consciousness and, when he could manage it, self-control—

And then another jolt: long arms wrapped around his chest, a warm body against his back. This time, Jon was quicker to recognise their owner, though not before a skipped heartbeat or two and a quick yelp.

Michael’s chin was somehow—Jon avoided the mental image—on his shoulder. It chuckled into his ear in a way that made his head buzz, and not unpleasantly. "That's better."

For what it was worth, it was easy to release the tension in his muscles, to relax into it. "And I would rather," said Jon, "you not startle me like that."

Michael hummed in acknowledgement, though, Jon suspected, not agreement.

#

What did this look like? A scarred, blind man holding hands with something human-seeming at least one head taller. Jon couldn’t be sure what it was wearing, either, its fashion, when Jon could see, having been just as unpredictable as the rest of it, alternating between colourful flourishes and less gaudy, bulky outerwear regardless of weather. Jon hoped it was the latter, but the thinness of the sleeve he could feel made him infer it was probably an eyesore.

More thoughts befitting of the Eye.

Jon tried to shake it out of him. Reminded himself that it didn’t matter what it looked like or who was watching; if anyone bothered them, then Michael would step in.

They had taken the Distortion’s doors. Jon had caught a short hitch in Michael’s voice when it invited him to open one. Yet, despite its—and Jon’s—trepidation, the doorknob turned smoothly. There was an agonising few moments as Jon internally yelled at himself to say _something,_ to ask how it could have been locked, to demand answers, but there came that disorienting dislocation that came from travel through its doors at unpredictable times—one moment, he was in his flat, surrounded by familiar smells, and the next he was in the cold outdoors, pavement below him, the stench and noise of city air around him—and the questions dropped from his mind. By the time he thought to ask them again, Michael was tugging him forward.

In its other hand, Michael carried Jon’s laundry basket. Dumb, mundane chores. It had answered cheerily enough when Jon, as something as a joke, noted that he was running out of clean clothes. Still cheery now as Michael told him it would handle getting the machine started, Jon all the while wracking his brain for more exciting activities.

A film? He had disliked movie theatres at the best of times, too loud and intense, and audio description certainly wouldn’t help with the overwhelm. But that was something people did, wasn’t it? As a date.

Groceries? There were things he wouldn’t mind picking up. But that was hardly a date—just more chores.

Michael led Jon to a bench outside and sat close next to him. It, Jon realised, would likely be content sitting motionless for the entire wash cycle. He wouldn’t.

He was thinking too humanly. What did the Distortion do for fun? Tormented people. Stalked its prey. Sure, it brought him to victims of his own and sat with him while they rambled out their failing attempts at narrative, but Jon doubted he could stand helping Michael himself. Nevertheless, he found himself imagining what it might entail: helping people into the doors somehow or waiting within the hallways themselves?

Michael had moved even closer. A hand around Jon’s chin turned him to the side and out of his thoughts, then there were lips on his. Pleasant at first—then Michael was pressing further, nibbling at his lower lip and, when Jon froze up, kissing down his jaw. One of its hands rubbed at his upper arm, pinpricks of sweet sugar even through his jacket, which also pushed him lightly against the back of the bench while Michael twisted, as if about to crawl onto him.

Jon’s face was instantly on fire. “ _Michael_ ,” he hissed in a sharp whisper, though Michael didn’t stop until Jon brought his hands up to nudge it away, at which point it gave a questioning hum, still barely moving. “Not—not now. Not in public.” The last thing he wanted was to be that couple necking on a public bench. People might have been watching.

Jon imagined it making computations somewhere, gears steadily turning. Finally, it pulled back and, to Jon’s disappointment, shuffled further away, no longer even touching him. It really was a rather chilly day.

“Not quite what I meant,” Jon mumbled, already regretting that he might have made it feel rejected. Was this Michael’s way of expressing displeasure, then? After all, it had thrown Jon into its hallways in a moment of umbrage, leaving him for dead; he’d already tasted some type of cold shoulder.

Complete isolation. The strangeness of walls and carpet that changed every time he touched them. Remembering those endless days or weeks sent a shudder through Jon. Anxious, he reached to the side, half-expecting empty air. So, it was a relief to feel Michael’s arm, which he followed down to grasp its hand. After a pause, it squeezed back. Not angry, then.

City life whirred by. The laundrette was by a busy enough road that there was a regular stream of people wandering past—foot traffic, wheelchairs, strollers, and so much conversation. Still, the silence was unbearable.

Further, there was something about Michael’s actions that bothered Jon—its expectations and assumptions. Jon suspected he’d regret it later, but maybe if he said it casually enough, he could laugh it off as a poor joke if it didn’t land: “So, have you been in a relationship before?”

Michael’s hand twitched. Slowly, it stated, “You are asking about Michael.”

The chill down Jon’s spine was probably his own nerves, not any sensory oddness from the Distortion. He chose not to laugh the question off immediately. “I suppose I am.”

“Re-la-tion-ship,” it sounded out, as if it had never heard the word before. “Every interaction is a form of _relating_ , is it not? It is only in _naming_ that some become more relevant.”

“Well, did y—did he?”

“Yes,” it replied, impatient. “Yes, he named many as _relevant_. The feeling was seldom so mutual.”

“Oh.”

“He was—” It paused, as if trying to remember something from long ago, though Jon suspected it was a more complicated act of recollection than that. “He was prone to _attachments_.”

 _Like me?_ The thought came unbidden; on reflection, Jon didn’t like the way it had said the word “attachments,” scornful and bitter, full of all the anger Michael held for its prior self. Something sharp in its grasp on him, too.

Prodding the lion, Jon knew, but these sorts of questions would weigh on him, and he probably wouldn’t return to the topic if he let it slide now. In public, it would hopefully be less likely to explode, as well. “Nobody longterm?”

“That,” said Michael, “does not concern you.”

Information for information, then. “I haven’t,” Jon said. “Nobody longterm, that is. Er, there were a few—Georgie for about two years in—”

“Not interested.”

The brusque response, a door slamming shut in Jon’s face, momentarily befuddled him. “O-oh.” No way for that conversation to go any further, then. A minute or so of silence, before Jon took a deep breath and got to his feet, pulling Michael with him. “While we wait,” he explained, “I need to grab some groceries.”

“Okay!” Bright and cheerful once again. Jon wasn’t sure whether to be thankful for that moodiness.

#

Assisted by the Distortion or not, chores were exhausting. After they had put away groceries and laundry—or, more accurately, Michael had, while Jon hovered awkwardly and fretted over whether its idea of fun might include disregarding his attempts at organisation—Jon collapsed to the couch.

Michael sat next to him. Then, there was an arm around his shoulders and the request of a nudge towards it. That came as a relief: Jon wouldn’t have to sit in awkward torment wondering if Michael wanted him to initiate. He slid closer, turning slightly so that he could rest his back on its chest—or what was _probably_ its chest. The more Jon thought about it, the more he tried to focus on the physical contact, the less sense it made, like an optical illusion whose impossibility only stood out after close study.

An arm with too many joints folded over Jon’s chest, and there came a soft sigh by his ear. Against his back, Michael felt too concave; or like something smooth and a hint too cold; or soft, like part of the couch. It mostly felt comfortable enough, so long as Jon didn’t think too hard about it—but he couldn’t stop himself.

It had never been so bizarre to _look_ at, had it? Jon thought back to those times circumstances had forced him down into the tunnels beneath the Archives to meet with it, though it was unpleasant to recall how little he had liked the Distortion at the time. It could look _wrong_ , yes, fingers long and twisted and sharp, bones not quite where they should have been, but now, the very boundaries of its body were looser. Was that solely a result of Michael relaxing, or was it, like some hypothetical cat in a box somewhere, freer from sticking to any one particular state when unseen? The question fascinated Jon as much as the feeling of its impossible angles sent shivers down his spine.

"Could you," Jon risked, "at least try to seem more human?"

Michael was silent for long enough that Jon suspected he was being ignored. However, it eventually huffed in discontentment and began to shift. Jon tried not to think of it as _joints snapping into place_ , but once it had settled, its body was much more consistent in both sensation and anatomy. Unmistakably still distorted, still Michael, but at least now it wasn’t a headache to deduce that there were only the one arm over his shoulder.

And it felt good. It felt good to finally rest, and especially to rest against Michael, regardless of how inhumanly it presented itself. Much better, Jon decided, than returning to a silent flat that nevertheless rarely felt entirely safe.

Guilty, then, both for requesting a more human shape and for dragging it around the whole day, Jon asked, "Do you, er, want me to do anything for you?”

He expected laughter, a toothy grin; he had just offered himself up to Michael’s whims, hadn’t he? What came instead was a flat statement: “What do you mean.”

“Today was about me and my chores,” Jon explained. There came the momentary image of what the Distortion’s laundry pile could look like—some strange, colourful space you could tumble into and never escape. “Not that you have chores. I just mean—is there anything _you_ want to do?”

“Want,” it repeated in a quiet voice that made Jon immediately realise he had made a mistake.

“That is,” Jon hurried to say, “it shouldn’t only be about me.”

“Why not?”

 _Why not?_ Jon stumbled over half-formed syllables for some moments. Compelled to fidget, his fingers first met Michael’s splayed across his chest. So, he chose to rub against those instead, counting out the joints on each finger—six on one, seven on the next.

“That’s not how it works,” Jon finally said. “I’m not _selfish_. I thought it would be nice to do something for you.”

For a brief moment, Jon felt he was touching fine blades instead of fingers. He flinched back. Then, by some trick of contortion or distortion, Michael extricated itself from behind Jon, leaving him resting against the back of the couch without even the feeling of having moved.

“I,” Michael said, lingering on the syllable, “have elsewhere to be.” Followed promptly by the creaking of a door and footsteps away.

“Wait,” Jon said, but it was already too late; the door had shut.

He had hoped—stupidly, of course; absolutely idiotically—that having said _boyfriend_ would stop it disappearing on him like this, would make interacting with it at all easier. Jon lightly hit his head against the backrest and swore under his breath.


	14. Theft

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brief allusions to JonElias, in case that bothers some?

Steeling himself to break into the Institute was much easier said than done. In the preceding hours, sleep came in anxious spurts, broken up by impatient requests to his phone for the time. Once, Jon for some reason expected Michael to be the one to respond. It would have ruined his plans; it would have been a relief.

Later. He could call on it later, demand its comfort once it was time to relax. He couldn’t let himself think of this plan as _optional_. It could weigh on him for all eternity. Jon and Michael were _boyfriends_ now, and he didn’t have the slightest clue who it once had been.

Finally, the numbers read out by that tinny digital voice added up to midnight. After so long waiting, it felt good just to _move_. He didn’t have much in the way of supplies—a backpack he hadn’t touched in years, but which would probably hold up; a hefty jacket; and an ancient Swiss Army knife that he probably couldn’t navigate in any sort of emergency, but which he nevertheless tucked away in order to feel a bit more prepared.

It took him another few minutes of psyching himself up simply in order to get out the front door. In the Tube, in a car whose few other passengers he wished more than anything he could anxiously watch, he had little to distract himself from the oncoming catastrophe other than to endlessly fold then reassemble his cane with sweating hands.

The Magnus Institute was hardly a blind-friendly building, but Jon had spent so long there—had all but _lived_ there in those final few months—that he could manage. He knew how to press down at a back door at the right angle to knock the lock out of place. Knew that the security system—at least, the electronic one—was so out of date he didn’t have to worry about any alarms. Knew how to navigate down into the dusty depths of the Archives, hoping with every sweep of the cane that they hadn't decided on any renovations in the three or so months since he had left.

He might have _prayed_ , but that seemed unwise in what was essentially the temple of an enemy god.

Straight to the back, then, where all of Gertrude’s tapes would be. The plan was to grab as many as he could and—somehow—sort through them later. Just a minute of Michael Shelley’s prior existence would make this worth it. Probably.

There was also, he had to admit, something thrilling about shovelling so many tapes into his backpack like it was some sort of bank heist. Maybe it wouldn’t count as a loss to the Eye—the statements had already been taken and processed, right?—but he liked to imagine that it might one day prove an inconvenience. Gertrude had tried hinder the Archives’ functions through inscrutable organisation schema; Jon was being even more direct by removing the data completely.

Wishful thinking.

There was no warning—no creaking doors or footsteps or even a preceding inhale—when Elias spoke.

“What a surprise it is to see you again, Jon.”

Jon spun, dropping the box he had been rooting through into a mess of fluttering papers and clacking tapes around his feet. Instantly regretted it: It wasn’t as though facing Elias would change anything, and the frantic turn disoriented him. Only by feeling for the shelf behind him could Jon recover a sense of direction.

“Oh, would you look at yourself,” Elias continued. Scathing judgement and pity dripped from every syllable that could carry it. “Though, I suppose you can't anymore, can you? Reduced to slinking around in the dark, blindly scrounging for scraps. I had thought the Spiral would take better care of its spoils.”

Jon finally found his tongue. “Elias.”

“Now, if I may ask, just what are you doing in my Institute at this hour?”

In time, Jon would come up with a clever retort that he would kick himself for not having said; for now, at the forefront of his thoughts was the need to keep his facial muscles relaxed, to not show fear. Slowly, like he was moving in front of a tiger, he zipped up the backpack and slung it over a shoulder. There were no immediate consequences for the action—no rough hands out of nowhere to grapple him to the ground. Elias was, probably, alone.

“Can’t you just _know_ what I’m doing?” asked Jon.

There was a pause—a beat too long between question and answer that intimated something deeper. “I would rather hear the answer from you,” Elias said.

“You can’t,” Jon stated. “You can’t See into me anymore.” He tried to hold onto that as a source of courage, but couldn’t quite convince himself to stand any straighter for it.

It didn’t help that Elias replied, coolly, “Don’t think you have some sort of upper hand here.” As if Jon needed to be told. He wasn’t entirely sure where the exit was anymore.

But Elias had stumbled—just slightly—when Jon asked a question. Jon leaned into that, put as much force and _curiosity_ into his voice as he could manage. “Well, _I_ have a question for you: _What have you been doing since I left the Institute?_ ”

The air shimmered, though Jon wasn’t sure how he could have perceived that. A wave of numbness travelled through his body, then lodged itself deep in his throat. His ears popped a few times in quick succession, and the oppressive smell of dust became, for a few moments, something flowery and pink, then something rancid and rotting, and then dust once more.

When he next remembered to breathe, it was with gasping, desperate breaths.

Elias was quiet for far too long, but just as Jon risked believing he had succeeded in leaving him dumbfounded, Elias said, slowly, “Interesting. Is _that_ what you do now?” And it was sincere interest. Jon shuddered.

“What happened after I left?” Jon repeated, but couldn’t manage anything more than a meek whisper. Someone’s or something’s attention held him frozen in place like pins on a butterfly board.

“How unfortunate,” said Elias, “that sort of destructive touch. Certainly explains some of the more confusing reports we’ve collected lately.”

Jon tried to swallow, but his mouth was much too dry for it.

“Now,” Elias continued, “it is far too late for me to want to play games. Put the backpack down and come with me.”

 _No no no._ Flashes of the awful possibilities Elias—the Eye—might have in store for him, a deserter. Flayed alive? No, those were old threats from the Stranger. The Eye worked more subtly, could consign him to nightmare after endless nightmare, without even the satisfaction of feeding himself through what was greater than him. And yet anything he could imagine would probably pale in comparison to what Elias actually had in store.

Fortunately, Jon hadn’t gone completely mindless from panic. Low and under his breath, framing it as a question in case that might better draw the Spiral’s attention, he whispered, “Michael?”

The next few moments were chaos:

A door not slowly creaking but slamming open.

The rolling crashing of a shelf toppling over, its contents scattering across the floor.

Heavy stomping in front of him. A buzzing _weight_ in reality that hovered in front of him, _thank God, thank God_.

And then Elias’s icy voice: “Ah, Mr. Shelley. I was wondering when you would come to collect your ward.”

“Shut up,” Michael snarled. Its voice was nothing like Jon had heard from it before: Loud and inhuman, it hurt like course sand poured directly into his ears. “Did you touch him?”

“In case you were not aware, I have done nothing but confront a thief breaking into my establishment,” said Elias.

“ _Did you touch him?_ ”

“Calm yourself, Shelley,” said Elias. “What use would I have of him, anyway, now that he’s gone and ruined himself?”

That shouldn’t have landed so painfully in Jon’s chest. All the more unnerving was the fact that Michael wasn’t attacking Elias on the spot. They were deep inside the Eye’s territory; all its growling and aggression could well have been insubstantial.

“I must say, it’s fitting, really,” Elias continued, evenly, “that the detritus of the Spiral’s Ritual would gravitate toward another failure.”

Jon shook his head. “Your Ritual,” he said. “It was _your_ Ritual that failed.” Had to hold onto that—a victory of sorts—to combat the growing chill. “I really messed up your plans, didn’t I?”

“Oh, don’t be so arrogant,” Elias snapped. “Your old position has already been filled. And, might I add, she is doing a much better job than you ever did.”

With Michael hovering in front of him—still a heavy presence that buzzed like sharp static—maybe Jon’s powers would be more effective. If he could introduce the slightest hint of confusion around the new Head Archivist…

“ _What_ _’s her name?_ What’s the name of the new—”

Jon’s head exploded in pain, a relentless all-consuming pressure that pounded through his skull. Strange not-quite-white flashes of imagined light, his brain trying to think around the thought-deafening pain and getting nowhere. It couldn’t have lasted more than a few seconds, though he wasn’t entirely sure; he was only still on his feet because Michael was steadying him by the shoulders, then running worried fingers through his hair, across his face.

It was whispering, cooing at him. “Don’t try. Stop trying. Not here.”

Jon hardly needed convincing; he felt like throwing up. The world spun with little to remind him of which direction gravity fell, and once he figured out the words to ask Michael to get them out of there, he would.

But then came Elias’s pitying voice: “Oh, Jon. If it was a _relationship_ you wanted, all you had to do was ask.”

Charging at Elias had been a dumb, rash decision, taken quickly enough that Michael couldn’t keep its grasp on him. Jon expected to hit a shoulder or arm, or—more likely—to find himself running straight into a shelf. There came a rush of unparallelled satisfaction, then, when his shoulder met firm, solid chest. Elias let out an exquisite grunt as they were both sent to the floor.

However, Jon didn’t have the chance to reward himself with thrown fists before he began to _See_ :

> Martin—oh God, _Martin_ —standing his ground against Peter and Elias. The knife drops to the ground, eyes defiant, then tired, and he fades, fades, fades into nothing. What follows is nauseating bickering over the exact language of some meaningless bet over ownership of the Institute while the space where Martin once stood ripples with his absence.
> 
> Two Hunters cackling and firing off shots into innocent Institute workers. Each lost life hits like a bullet: this one was planning for a wedding in the next month; this one was the sole caretaker of his elderly mother. So many lives lost in an instant because of you, Jon, because of you and your stupid, selfish actions.
> 
> The inhuman roar of a third Hunter that had tried so, so hard to fight off the call of blood until backed into a corner. Daisy fights and fights and disappears into the tunnels as a monster lost to the darkness and it's _because of you_.
> 
> Scarcely a week later, Basira’s wounds still fresh, you return, changed, bleeding your confusion and stumbling through a conversation that you should have sensed was doomed until she begins to doubt even the existence of her closest, now-lost friends, and did you know she can’t even think the name _Martin_ without splitting headaches? Did you know she sometimes questions whether Daisy ever existed?

“What are you doing to him? What are you showing him? Stop it, _stop_ —”

Jon was on his side. The cold from the hard floor sunk though his clothes and turned the whole world into frost. He was sobbing—no tears, but that didn't stop the awful uncontrolled convulsions of his chest. When a hand closed around his upper arm, he twisted and tried to push the invader off, but the way the fingers dug into—through—his skin and the force with which he was lifted to his feet made it quickly apparent that it was Michael.

He was only slightly self-conscious about crumbling into its chest and wrapping his fingers into the soft fabric of its sweater. Tried to fall into the warm static of Michael’s touch, but every word spoken around him kept pulling him back.

“I am simply letting him know how much we at the Institute have _missed him_ ,” Elias hissed. “Just as he had asked.”

“He’s not _yours._ ” Michael’s growl resonated endlessly in its chest. Jon felt the weight of Michael’s attention turn towards him. It brushed the hair from his face with hands that were now too human and soft. Jon flinched, recoiled from it at first, but after a few moments, let himself lean into it.

“I’m still seeing it,” he managed to say, whispering as if it made a difference in what Elias could and couldn’t hear.

The afterimages burned: Martin’s small, sad smile; so much blood. No other visual stimuli to turn his attention to. He was a monster, wasn’t he? Fully and completely, now. To have left the way he did, abandoning his assistants—his _friends_ —to be consumed while he himself fled to—what—a new boyfriend that all but waited on him?

A boyfriend that was gently placing its thumbs over the holes where his eyes had been. The touch was small bursts of impossible colours and a smell like lilies and—distracting. It was distracting him.

Only for a few moments, though, before its hands were gone. “I’ll kill you,” it was saying to Elias. “I’ll _kill you_ —”

Jon reached out in time to grab an arm. While the idea of letting Michael loose on Elias was appealing, he suspected there was a reason it hadn’t tried earlier; Elias wouldn’t risk provoking something unless he knew it wasn’t a threat. “Let’s leave,” he said with a tug. “Let’s just leave. You can get us out of here, can’t you?”

“I have never been stopping you,” said Elias. Jon wanted to think he sounded put off, maybe even winded—that knocking him to the ground had had some effect—but he couldn’t be entirely sure. His attention was directed more towards Michael and the tense, vibrating energy in its arm.

Michael remained still for some seconds. Finally, it took a step back, and Jon could stop holding his breath. “The door is behind you,” it said without turning around.

Jon wasn’t eager to turn his back on Elias either, sight or not. Expecting a trap, one last attack, Jon slowly stepped backwards until his hand, reached out behind him, found the hard surface.

As Jon and Michael retreated through the door, Elias gave one last remark, easy and self-assured: “Be seeing you, Jon.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (If you managed to grab this in like the first half hour then you got to see an extra scene that I've decided will go at the beginning of next chapter, so, congrats. :V)


End file.
